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Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year ISoG, by 

DAVID BUGBEE & CO., 

In the Clerk's Office of the District Coui-t of the District of Maine. 



PROEM. 

BY WILLIAM BELCHER GLAZIER. 
t 

Harp of tlie da.vh Pine forest-land ! 

Harp, that the Poets' birth-place owns ! 
How bold becomes the timorous hand. 

When once it wakes thy tones. 

Here, where the broadest rivers sweep. 

Here, where the dimmest woods are found. 

Our fondest memories start from sleep, 
Aroused by thy dear sound. 

Come, let me strike thy chords once more. 
And, while my fingers o'er them roam. 

Return the strain beloved of yore, 
And murmur. Harp, of Home. 



Yes, this is Home ! its tasseled pines. 
Its rugged hills, its short-lived flowers. 

Its fields where "Winter late reclines. 
Are cheerless, but are ours. 



Vlll. PROEM. 



Hearts have beat, warmly here as where 

The Summer Hngers late and long, 
And here have brows found strengcth to bear 



The laurel wreath of Song. 



The strains that fill with Hope the heart, 
The lays that cheer us in the strife, 

The songs that make young Love a part. 
The dearest part of Life ; 

The fancies that the Poets find 

In buds, in streams, in forests serCj 

In spells that master every muid, 
Have all been uttered here. 

And thou who readest, if a strain 
Brings joy or makes one care to flee. 

Let it, too, bear the low refrain, 
' This song: was sunof for thee.' 



INDEX. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. Page. 

Ship of State. — Introductory Poem, 2 

Biographical Slictch 3 

Spanish Student. -An Extract,. 7 

A Psalm of Life '. " .... 14 

The Village Blacksmith, 16 

The Beleaguered City, '. 18 

Phan:,oms, 20 

Resignation, 22 

A Passing Thought.— -4« Extract, 24 

Excelsior, ; 25 

God's Acre, 27 

The Rainy Day, 28 

NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

Woman'.s Love , — Introductory Poem, 30 

Biographical Sketch, .31 

The Confessional, 3.S 

Thoughts while making the grave of a new-born child, 39 

Filial Love. — An Extract, 41 

The Annoyer, 42 

Parrhasius. — An Extract, 44 

Belfrv Pigeon, 47 

Tired of Pla}-, 49 

April , 51 

BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 

Twilight Musings. — Introductory Poem 54 

Biograph ical Sketch, 55 

Bird of the Bastile, 59 

Weep not for the dead, 62 

I Will Remember Thee, 64 

To a Sister — Embarkiny on a Missionary Enterprise, 66 

ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 

To my Mother. — Introductory Poem, 68 

Biographical Sketch 69 

Inspiration of the Muse, 73 

The Farewell, 77 

The Little Star.— ^n Extract, 79 

The Wanderer, 80 



INDEX. 



ELIZABETH 0. SMITH. Page. 

The Amnrnntb. —Inti-oductory Poem, 84 

Biographical Sketch, 85 

The Acorn, 87 

The Drowned Mariner, 97 

Progression, 100 

GRENVILLE MELLEN. 

Mount Wasliington. — Introductory Poem 102 

liiographical Slcetch, 103 

Mount Vernon, 105 

The True Glory of America, 110 

The Bugle, 113 

ISAAC McLELLAN. 

An Evening Scene. — Introductory Poem, liy 

Biographical Sketch, II7 

The Notes of the Birds, II9 

The Fields of War, , 122 

Autumn, 124 

New England's Dead, 126 

The Death of Napoleon, 1 28 

June, 130 

JOHN NEAL. 

Shakspcare's Tomb. — Introductory Poem, 132 

Biographical Sketch I33 

The Battle of Niagara. — An Extract, 135 

Ambition, 138 

Birth of a Poet I39 

EDMUND FLAGG. 

Fare Thee Well. — Introductory Poem, 142 

Biographical Skettli, 143 

The Close of the Year , 135 

The Magnetic Telegraph l.'iO 

The Withered Flowers, 152 

Smiles oft Deceive Us, 154 

SEBA SMITH. 

Ode to Chesapeake Bay. — Introductory Poem, 158 

1 iographical Sketch, 159 

The Little Graves 161 

The Snow Storm, 164 

The Pool of Bethesda, 165 

Youth and Old Age, , 166 

FREDERIC MELLEN. 

Troubadour's Serenade. — Introductory Poeyn, 168 

Biographical Sketch, 169 

Song of the Wintry Wind, 171 

Sabbath Evening, 174 

Venetian Moonlight, 176 

To the Arno, 178 

The Village Church, 179 

The Crusader's Farewell, 181 



INDEX. xi. 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. Page. 

December Snow. — Introductory Poem, 184 

Biosnipliical Sketch, 185 

Land Hreezes, ] 87 

Homeless, \ _ isy 

Fever, \ .191 

Tlie Rosary, . ; | . " . 19-^ 

Cape Cottn rje, 19,3 

Nearer to Thee. — An Extract, 19(3 

The Launching, I97 

MISS A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 

Life's Harvest Y\ch\.— Introductory Poem, 200 

Biographical Sketch 201 

Life's Liarht and Shade, .203 

Myrtle Creek, .20.3 

To Lillie, !...!. 1 .!."!!!."..! . .200 

EDWARD P. WESTON. 

The Two Hands. — Introductory Poe?n, 208 

Biograpliical Sketch, .200 

A Vision of Immortality, 211 

Lines, '.'2\5 

The Ocean Buried, .217 

To One Absent ','.'.2.8 

MRS. II. MARION STEPHENS. 

Thine Till D^^ath.— Introductory Poem, 220 

l^iographical Sketch, 221 

Song of the Impro visatrice, 2~3 

My Grave, .225 

To One Afar, ■. ...^^. ...... .\...\.. ....\.\\\..... '.22C} 

To a Songstress, .".'..!.'.".'!!!.'.'!.'.'.'!.'!!.!."! !227 

Farewell, ......!!..!!...!!!.!!...!!. .228 

DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY, 

Truth. — Introdtictori) Poem,, 230 

Biographical Sketch, .".".".'.." .23 1 

Your Brother, '_ , , _o.'i> 

One Deed of Kindness, " .". .234 

Don't Kill the Birds !23-3 

Be not Discouraged, 23i) 

Let us Do Good, .238 

WILLIAM G CROSBY. 

True Fame. — Introductory Poem, 240 

Biograpliical SKetch,: .211 

Telling the Dream, ".....!.....!.!]... .2 1.3 

The Last Leaf, 24() 

To a Lady, 2-18 

DAVID BARKER: 

Stanzas. — Introductory Poem 2-''i2 

Biographical Sketch,'. '. . . . . .2.')3 

Try Again 25 4 

bolace for Dark Hours, 255 



Xll. INDEX. 



WILLIAM CUTTER. Page. 

Tlic One Talent, — IntroductoryPoem, 258 

Biographical Sketch, 259 

The Valley of Silence, 2G0 

Who is my Neighbor ? 263 

The iJi-idal, 264 

NATHANIEL DEERING. 

Father Ralle's Soliloquy. — Introductory Poem, 2G6 

Biographical Sketch, 207 

The Grave, 269 

The Harp, 271 

A'ARIOUS AUTHOES. 

Sylvester B. Beckett—' O, Lady, Sing that Soiig Again' 274 

Charles P. Roberts— 77(6 Sleep uf Nature, 275 

Bkn J. A. G Fuller- -Frt/C/«, Hope, Charity, 277 

'Fi.OKENCn Percy, — June Shower, 279 

Edward M. Field — My Sister, 281 

Mklville W. Fuller — Remorse, 283 

Miss Fanny- P. Laughton— Cas</es m the Fire, 284 

George W. Snow — The Tempest Driven, 285 

Miss Hannah E. Bradbury— 7%e Covered Bridge, 287 

Miss Sarah W. Spaulding — The Storm and the Rainbow, 288 

Charles P. Ilsley — ' O this is not my Home.' 290 

Miss Hannah A. Moore— J7«e Spirit of Song, 291 

Lewis Dela — Law vs Sato, 293 

Miss Sarah Hayford — The Sleeping Babe, 295 

ORIGINAL POEMS. 

Bacchanalian Song— Melville W. Fuller, 298 

Pansies— Miss F. ."'. Laughton 299 

The Foi:saken Arbor— Benj. A. G. Fuller, 301 

The Indian At B\y— William Cutter, 303 

Rhymes— Edward P. Weston, 305 

The Shores of Maine— Isaac McLellan, 307 



SHIP OF STATE, 



Thou, too, sail on, O Ship of State! 

Sail ou, Union, strong and great! 

Humanity with all its fears, 

With all its hopes of future years, 

Is hanging breathless ou thy fate? 

We know what Master laid thy keel. 

What Workmen wrought thy ribs of steel, 

Who made each mast, and sail, and rope, 

What anvils rang, what hammers beat, 

In what a forge and what a heat, 

Were shaped the anchors of thy hope ! 

Fear not each sudden sound and shock, 

' Tis of the wave, and not the rock; 

' Tis but the flapping of tlie sail. 

And not a rent made by the gale! 

In spite of rock and tempests' roar. 

In spite of false lights on the shore. 

Sail on, nor fear to breast the sea! 

Our hearts, our hopes, are all with thee. 

Our hearts, our hopes, our prayers, our tears, 

Our faith triumphant o'er our fears. 

Are all with thee,— are all with thee! 



i 



HENRY WAD^WORTH LONGFELLOW. 

AGE, 47 YEARS. 

Hexry W. Longfellow is a son of the late Hon. Stephen 
Longfellow, and a native of Portland, in -which city he was born on 
the twenty-seventh day of February, 1807. He was graduated from 
Bowdoin College, in the class of 1825, and being desu'ous of nsiting 
the scenes of beauty and grandeur in the old world, he soon after 
made an extended torn- through England, France, Spain, Germany 
and Italy, Avhich occupied nearly four years. Much of this time was 
given to the study of the languages, manners and customs, and his- 
torical mcidents of the different nations that he visited. For nearly 
five years, after his return, he occupied the chair of Professor of Modern 
Languages, in Bowdoin College, at Brmiswick, Maine, fi-om which he 
was a graduate. Li 1835, he agam ^■isited Europe, accompanied by 
his vafe, to whom he was married four years pre^^ous, and who died 
very suddenly during the ensuing Annter, while they were sojourning 
at Heidelberg. He spent considerable time in Germany, Tyrol and 
Switzerland, and Denmark and Sweden, devoting liimself to the study 
of Northern languages and literature. He returned home during the 
fall of 1836, and received the appointment of Professor of French and 
Spanish Languages, in Harvard University, at Cambridge, Mass., where 
he still resides. 

INIr. Longfellow's first efforts in literature were made while he 
was a Sophomore in Bowdoin College, as a contributor to the " United 
States Literary Gazette," by which he acquired considerable populari- 
ty among the reading commmiity ; he was also a contributor to the 
" North American Review," wliile a Professor in the College. Li 1839, 
he published " Hyperion," of wliich Dr. Griswold, a very able critic, 
says, " it is one of the most beautiful prose compositions m our Ian- 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



guage." Subsequent to this, he published " Outre-Mer, a Pilgrimage 
Beyond the Sea;" in 1840, "Voices of the Night," his first volume 
of Poems, and two years later, " Ballads and Other Poems ;" in 1848, 
" Evangeline, a Tale of Acadie," one of his most beautiful and admhed 
poems; in 1849, "Kavanagh," a prose tale; in 1850, "Sea-Side and 
Fireside," a collection of Poems ; in 1852, "The Golden Legend," a 
Poem dramatique. In 1853, his publishers, Messrs. Ticknor, Reed 
and Fields, of Boston, issued his complete. poetical works and transla- 
tions, m two volumes, not including, however, " The Golden Legend," 
liis longest poem, which was published at nearly the same time. 

Professor Longfellow, by his earnest and persevermg study of 
the Modern Languages, has been able to give to the literature of this 
country, some of the most beautiful and correct translations m the 
English language ; among which are, " The Children of the Lord's 
Supper," " Frithiof's Saga," and " Coplas de Manrique," and a numer- 
ous collection of minor ones. Although he has acliieved a fame 
greater than any x\merican Poet, he is still adding to it by frequent 
productions from his prohfic pen. What he has MTitten, will remain 
before the public, and in the hearts of lus countless friends, when the 
long grass shall wave and fall over the poet's sacred place of rest, and 
they will gather aromid Iris " Fireside," and that calm and holy 
" Resignation" will teach them 

To thiuk day after day what he is doinp; 
111 those bright realms of air? 

" Thiis win they walk with him, and keep unbroken 

The bond which Nature gives, 
Thinking that their remembrance, though unspoken, 

May reach him where he lives." 

There is something so tender, so gentle, and so woman-like in 
the natm-e of Mr. Longfellow, that his poems imbibe it bomitifuUy, 
and it brings them home to the heart, and not the mind alone, and 
what the heart loves and admu-es, vaW Hnger long ere time can oblit- 
erate it. He is yet a Professor m Harvard University, and resides at 
Cambridge, in the old mansion once the head-quarters of George 
Washington, and of wliich he \\Tites, in a poem, " To a Child ": — 

Once, ah, once within these walls, 
One whom Memory oft recalls, 
The Father of his Country dwelt. 
And yonder meadows broad and damp, 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOAV. 



The fires of the besieging camp 
Encircled with a burning belt. 
Up and down these echoing stairs, 
Heavy with the weight of cares, 
Sounded his majestic tread ; 
Yes, witliin lliis very room, 
Sat he in those hours of gloom, 
"Weary both in heart and head. 

In England, and many other comitries, INIr. Longfellow is con- 
sidered the most distinguished poet of America. Gilfilkn, iii liis 
Enghsh Avork, pubHshcd in London, entitled, "Literary Men," in 
■\vhich Mr. Longfellow is the only American author included, thus 
speaks of his style, and characteristics : — 

" The distmguishing quaUties of Longfellow seem to be, beauty of 
imagination, deUcacy of taste, ■wide spnpathy, and mild earnestness, 
expressing themselves sometimes m form of quaint and fantastic fancy, 
but always in chaste and simple language. His fertile imagination 
sympathizes more -with the correct, the classical, and the refined, than 
Anth that outer and sterner world, where dwell the di-eary, the rude, 
the fierce, and the terrible shapes of tilings. The scenery he describes 
best is the storied richness of the Rhine, or the golden glories of the 
Indian summer, or the environs of the old Nova-Scotian tillage, or 
the wide billowmg prahie ; and not those vast forests, where a path 
for the smibeams must be hewn, nor those wildernesses of snow, where 
the storm and the Ming of the Condor chnde the sovereignty. In the 
midst of such ckeadful soHtudes, his genius rather sliivers and cowers, 
than rises and reigns. 

" He is a spirit of the Beautiful, more than the Sublime ; he has 
lain on the lap of Loveliness, and not been dandled, like a lion-cub, 
on the knees of Terror. The magic he wields, though soft, is true 
and strong. If not a prophet, torn by a secret burden, and uttering 
it in \nld, tumultuous strains, he is a genuine poet -who has sought for, 
and fomid inspiration, now in the story and scenery of his own coun- 
try, and now in the lays and legends of other lands, whose native vein, 
in itself exquisite, has been by liim highly cultivated and dehcately 
cherished. It is to us a proof of Losgfellow's originality, that he bears 
so well and meekly his load of accompUshments and acquirements. 
His ornaments, imlilce those of the Sabine maid, have not crushed 
him, nor impeded the motions of his owii mind. He has transmuted 



6 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

a lore, gathered from many languages, into a quick and rich flame > 
■which Me feel to be the flame of Genius. It is e^ident that his prin- 
cijial obligations arc due to German Uteratiu-e, -wliich over liim, as over 
so many at the present day, exerts a certain A\ild witchery, and is tast- 
ed vith all the sweetness of forbidden fruit. No writer in America 
has more steeped his soul in the spirit of German poetry, its blended 
homeliness and romance, its simphcity and fantastic emphasis, than 
Longfellow. And if he does not often trust himself amidst the wel- 
tering chaos of its philosophers, you sec him lured by then- fascina- 
tion, hanging over their brink, and rapt in wonder at their strange, 
gig-antic, and eversliifting forms. Indeed his " Hyperion" contains 
two or three exquisite bits of trancendantalism. * * * His poetry is 
that of sentiment, rather than of thought. But the sentiment is never 
false, nor strained, nor mawkish. It is always mild, generally manly, 
and sometimes it approaches the sublime. It touches both the female 
part of man's mind, and the mascuUnc part of woman's. He can at 
one time start unwonted tears in the eyes of men, and at another kin- 
dle on the cheek of women, a glorious glow of emotion, which the 
term blush cannot adequately measure ; as far superior to it as the 
splendor of a smiset to the bloom of a peach. 

" Besides his quality of generous, genial, manhood, Longfellow is 
distinguished by a mild religious earnestness. We do not vouch for 
the orthodoxy of his creed, but we do vouch for the firm Christianity 
of Ins spirit. No poet has more beautifully expressed the depth of 
liis conviction, that life is an earnest reality, — a sometliing with eter- 
nal issues and dependencies ; that this earth is no scene of reveh-y, or 
market of sale, but an arena of contest, and a hall of doom. This is 
the inspiration of liis " Psalm of Life," than which we have few things 
finer, in moral tone, since those odes by which the millions of Israel, 
tuned their march across the wilderness, and to wliich the fiery pillar 
seemed to Usten vdth complacency, and to glow out a deeper crimson, 
in silent praise. To man's now wilder, more struggling, but still 
more God-guided and hopeful progress, towards a land of fairer 
promise, Longfellow's " Psalm" is a noble accompaniment." 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



THE SPANISH STUDENT. 



AN EXTRACT, (a) 



VICTORIAN. 

Our feelings and our thoughts 
Tend ever on, and rest not in the Present. 
As drops of rain fall into some dark well, 
And from below conies a scarce audible sound, 
So fall our thoughts into the dark Hereafter, 
And their mysterious echo reaches us. 

PRECIOSA. 

I have felt it so, but found no words to say it ! 

I cannot reason ; I can only feel ! 

But thou hast language for all thoughts and feelings. 

Thou art a scholar ; and sometimes I think 

We cannot walk together in this world ! 

The distance that divides us is too great ! 

Henceforth thy pathway lies among the stars ; 

I must not hold thee back. 

VICTORIAN. 

Thou little skeptic ! 
Dost thou still doubt ? What I most prize in woman 
Is her affections, not her intellect ! 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



The intellect is finite ; but the affections 
Are infinite, and cannot be exhausted. 
Compare me with the great men of the earth; 
What am I ? AVhy, a pigmy among giants ! 
But if thou lovcst, — mark me ! I say lovest, 
The greatest of th ysex excels thee not ! 
The world of aff"ections is thy world, 
Not that of man's ambition. In that stillness 
Which most becomes a woman, calm and holy, 
Thou sittest by the fireside of the heart. 
Feeding its fiame. The element of fire 
Is pure. It cannot change nor hide its nature, 
But burns as brightly in a Gipsy camp 
As in a palace hall. Art thou convinced ? 

PRECIOSA. 

Yes, that I love thee, as the good love heaven ; 
But not that I am worthy of that heaven. 
How shall I more deserve it ? 

VICTORIAN. 

By loving more. 

PKECIOSA. 

I cannot love thee more ; my heart is full. 

VICTORIAN. 

Then let it overflow, and I will drink it. 
As in the summer-time the thirsty sands 
Drink the swift waters of the IManganares, 
And still do thirst for more. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



"VICTOKLVN, 

She lies asleep, 
And from her parted lips, her gentle breath 
Comes like the fragrance from the lips of flowers. 
Her tender limbs are still, and on her breast 
The cross she prayed to, e'er she fell asleep, 
Rises and falls with the soft tide of dreams, 
Like a light barque safe moored. 

nYPOLITO, 

Which means, in pross, 
She's sleeping with her mouth a little open ! 

O, would I. had the old magician's glass 
To see her as she lives in child-like sleep ! 

IIYPOLITO. 

And wouldst thou venture ? 

YICTORLVN. 

Ay, indeed I would ! 

HYPOLITO. 



Thou art courageous. Hast thou e'er reflected 
How much lies hidden in that one word, now 7 



10 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 

VICTORL\N. 

Yes ; all the aAvful history of Life ! 

I oft have thought, my dear Hypolito, 

That could we, by some spell of magic, change 

The world and its inhabitants to stone, 

In the same attitudes they now are in, 

"What fearful glances downward might we cast 

Into the hollow chasms of human life ! 

What groups shoidd we behold about the death-bed, 

Putting to shame the group of Niobe ! 

What joyful welcomes, and what sad farewells ! 

What stony tears in those congealed eyes I 

What visible joy or anguish on those cheeks ! 

What bridal pomps, and what funeral shows ! 

What foes, like gladiators, fierce and struggling ! 

What lovers with their marble lips together ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Ay, there it is ! and, if I were in love, 
That is the very point I most should dread. 
This magic glass, these magic spells of thine. 
Might tell a tale 'twere better left untold. 



HYPOLITO. 



With much truth in it. 
I hope thou wilt profit by it ; and in earnest 
Try to forget this lady of thy love. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



11 



VICTOKIAX. 

I will forget her ! All dear recollections 
Pressed in my heart like flowers within a book, 
Shall be torn out, and scattered to the winds ! 
I will forget her ! But perhaps hereafter, 
When she shall learn how heartless is this world, 
And she will saj% ' He was indeed my friend ! ' 
O, would I were a soldier, not a scholar. 
That the loud march, the deafening beat of drums. 
The shattering blast of the brass-throated trumpet, 
The din of arms, the onslaught and the storm, 
And a swift death might make me deaf forever 
To the upbraidings of this foolish heart ! 

HYPOLITO. 

Then let that foolish heart upbraid no more ! 
To conquer love, one need but icill to conquer. 

VICTORIAN. 

Yet good Hypolito, it is in vain 

I throw into Oblivion's sea the sword 

That pierces me ; for, like Excalibar, 

"With gemmed and flushing hilt, it will not sink. 

There rises from, below a hand that grasps it. 

And waves it in the air ; and vv^ailing voices 

Are heard alono; the shore. 



And yet at last 
Down sank Excalibar to rise no more. 
This is not well. In truth it vexes me. 



12 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



Instead of whistling to the steeds of Time, 

To make them jog on more meiTil)^ with life's burden, 

Like a dead weight thou hangest on the wheels. 

Thou art too young, too full of lusty health 

To talk of dying. 

TICTORIAN. 

Yet I fain would die ! 
To go through life, unloving and unloved ; 
To feel that thirst and hunger of the soul 
We cannot still ; that longing, that wild impulse, 
And struggle after something we have not 
And cannot love ; the effort to be strons; ; 
And like the Spartan boy, to smile, and smile, 
While secret wounds do bleed beneath our cloaks ; 
All this the dead feel not, — the dead alone ! 
Would I were with them ! 



HYPOLITO. 



We shall all be soon. 



VICTORIAN. 

It cannot be too soon ; for I am wearj' 

Of this bewildering masquerade of Life, 

Where strangers walk as friends, and friends as strangers; 

Where whispers overheard betray false hearts ; 

And through the mazes of the crowd we chase 

Some form of loveliness, that smiles and beckons, 

And cheats us Avith fair words, only to leave us 

A mockery and a jest; maddened, — confused, — 

Not knowinj; friend from foe. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



13 



HYPOLITO. 

Why seek to know ? 
Enjoy the merry shrove-tide of thy youth ! 
Take each fair mask for what it gives itself, 
Nor strive to look heneath it. 

YICTORU.N. 

I confess, 
That were the wiser part. But Hope no longer 
Comforts my soul. I am a wretched man. 
Much like a poor and shipwrecked mariner, 
Who, struggling to climb up into the boat, 
Has both his bruised and bleeding hands cut off. 
And sinks again into the weltering sea. 
Helpless and hopeless ! 



HYPOLITO. 



Yet thou shalt not perish. 
The strength of thine own arm is thy salvation. 
Above thy head, through rifted clouds, there shines 
A glorious star. Be patient. Trust thy star ! 



1-i HENRY W, LONGFELLOW. 



A PSALM OF LIFE. 

WHAT THE HEART OF THE YOUNG MAN SAID TO THE PSALMIST. 

Tell me not, in mournful numbers, 

' Life is but an empty dream ! ' 
For the soul is dead that slumbers. 

And things are not what they seem. 

Life is real ! Life is earnest ! 
And the grave is not its goal ; 
' Dust thou art, to dust returnest,' 
Was not spoken of the soul. 

Not enjoyment, and not sorrow, 

Is our destined end or way ; 
But to act, that each to-morrow 

Finds us farther than to-day. 

Art is long, and Time is fleeting, 

And our hearts, though stout and brave, 

Still, like muffled drums are beating 
Funeral marches to the grave. 

In the world's broad field of battle 

In the bivouac of Life, 
Be not like dumb, driven cattle ! 

Be a hero in the strife. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 15 

Trust no Future, howe'er pleasant ! 

Let the dead Past bury its dead ! 
Act, — act in the living Present ! 

Heart within, and God overhead ! 

Lives of great men all remind us 

We can make our lives sublime, 
And, departing, leave behind us 

Footprints on the sands of Time ; 

Footprints, that perhaps another, 

Sailing o'er life's solemn main, 
A forlorn and shipwrecked brother, 

Seeing, shall take heart again. 

Let us, then, be up and doing. 

With a heart for any fate ; 
Still aching, still pursuing, 

Learn to labor and to wait. 



16 HEXRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



THE VILLAGE BLACKSMITH. 

Undek a spreading chestnut tree 

The village smithy stands ; 
The smith, a mighty man is he. 

With large and sinewy hands ; 
And the muscles of his brawny arms 

Are strong as iron bands. 

His hair is crisp, and black, and long. 

His face is like the tan ; 
His brow is wet with honest sweat 

He earns whatever he can, . 
And looks the whole world in the face, 

For he owes not any man. 

Week in and week out, from morn till night, 
You can hear his bellows blow ; 

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge, 
With measured beat and slow, 

Like a sexton ringing the village bell, 
When the evening sun is low. 

And children coming home from school 

Look in at the open door ; 
They love to see the flaming forge, 

And hear the bellows roar^ 
And catch the burning sparks that fly 

Like the chaff" from a threshing floor. 



HENRY W. LOXGFELLOW, 



17 



He goes on Sunday to the church, 

And sits among his boys ; 
,IIe hears the parson pray and preach, 

He hears his daughter's voice, 
Singing in the village choir, 

And it makes his heart rejoice. 

It sounds to him like her mother's voice. 

Singing in Paradise ! 
He needs must think of her once more, 

How in the grave she lies ; 
And with his hard rough hand he wipes 

A tear out of his eyes. 



Toiling, — rejoicing, — sorrowing, 
. Onward through life he goes ; 
Each morning sees some task begin, 

Each evening sees it close ; 
Something attempted, something done, 

Has earned a ni^t's repose. 

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend, 
For the lesson thou hast taught ! 

Thus at the flaming forge of life 
Our fortunes must be wrought ; 

Thus on its sounding anvil shaped 
Each burning deed and thought. 



18 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



THE BELEAGUERED CITY. 

I HAVE read in some old marvellous tale, 
Some legend strange and vague, 

That a midnight host of spectres pale 
Beleaguered the walls of Prague. 

Beside the Moldar's rushing stream, 
With the wan moon overhead, 

There stood, as in an awful dream, 
The army of the dead. 

White as a sea-fog, landward bound, 
The spectral camp was seen. 

And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 
The river flowed betwea*. 

No other voice nor sound was there. 

No drum, nor sentry's pace ; 
The mist-like banners -clasped the air. 

As clouds with clouds embrace. 

But, when the old cathedral bell 
Proclaimed the morning prayer, 

The white pavilions rose and fell 
On the alarmed air. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 19 

Down the broad valley, fast and far 

The troubled army fled ; 
Up rose the glorious morning star, 

The ghastly host was dead. 

I have read, in the marvellous heart of man, 

That strange and mystic scroll, 
Than an army of phantoms vast and wan 

Beleaguer the human soul. 

Encamped beside Life's rushing stream. 

In Fancy's misty light, 
Gigantic shapes and shadows gleam 

Portentious through the night. 

Upon its midnight battle-ground 

The spectral camp is seen. 
And, with a sorrowful, deep sound, 

Flows the River of Life between. 

No other voice, nor sound is there, 

In the army of the grave ; 
No other challenge breaks the air, 

But the rushing of Life's wave. 

And, when the solemn and deep church-bell 

Entreats the soul to pray, 
The midnight phantoms feel the spell, 

The shadows sweep away. 

Down the broad Vale of Tears afar 

The spectral camp is fled : 
Faith shineth as a morning star, 

Our ghastly fears are dead. 



20 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



PHANTOMS. 

All houses wherein men have lived and died 
Are haunted houses. Through the open doors 

The harmless phantoms on their errands glide, 
With feet that make no sound upon the floors. 

We meet them at the doorway, on the stair, 
Along the passage they come and go, 

Impalpable impressions on the air, 

A sense of something moving to and fro. 

There are more guests at table than the hosts 

Invited ; the illuminated hall 
Is thronged with quiet, inoff'ensive ghosts, 

As silent as the pictures on the wall. 

The stranger at my fireside cannot see 

The forms I see, nor hear the sounds I hear : 

He but perceives what is ; while unto me 
All that has been is visible and clear. 



We have no title-deeds to house or lands ; 

Owners and occupants of earlier dates 
From graves forgotten stretch their dusty hands 

And hold in mortmain still their old estates. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 21 



The spirit world around this world of sense 
Floats like an atmosphere, and everywhere 

Wafts through these earthly mists and vapors dense, 
A vital breath of more ethereal air. 

Our little lives are kept in equipoise 

By opposite attractions and desires ; 
The struggle of the instinct that enjoys 

And the more noble instinct that aspires. 

The perturbations, the perpetual jar 
Of earthly wants and aspirations high. 

Come from the influence of that unseen star — 
That undiscovered planet in our sky. 

And as the moon, from some dark gate of cloud. 
Throws o'er the sea a floating bridge of light, 

Across whose trembling plank our fancies crowd, 
Into the realms of mystery and night, 

So from the world of spirits there descends 
A bridge of light, connecting it with this, 

O'er whose unsteady floor, that sways and bends. 
Under our thoughts above the dark abyss. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



RESIGNATION. 

There is no flock however watclied and tended, 

But one dead lamb is there ! 
There is no fireside howsoe'er defended, 

But has one vacant chair. 

The air is full of farewells to the dying, 

And mournings for the dead ; 
The heart of Rachel for her children crying. 

Will not be comforted ! 

Let us be patient ! These severe afflictions 

Not from the ground arise. 
But oftentimes celestial benedictions 

Assume this dark disguise. 

We see but dimly thro' the mists and vapors ; 

Amid these earthly damps 
What seem to us but sad, funeral tapers 

May be heaven's distant lamps. 

There is no Death ! What seems so is transition ; 

This life of mortal breath 
Is but a suburb of the life elysian, 

Whose portals we call Death. 




l>ag-by .1 Whipple 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 23 

She is not dead, — the child of our afFection, — 

But gone unto that school 
Where she no longer needs our poor protection. 

And Christ himself doth rule. 

In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion, 

By guardian angels led, 
Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution, 

She lives, whom we call dead. 

Day after day we think what she is doing 

In those bright realms of air ; 
Year after year her tender steps pursuing 

Behold her grown more fair. 

Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbroken 

The bond which nature gives. 
Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken. 

May reach her where she lives. 

Not as a child shall we again behold her ; 

For when with raptures wild 
In our embraces we again enfold her. 

She will not be a child ; 

But a fa'r maiden, in her Father's mansion, 

Clothed with celestial grace ; 
And beautiful with all the soul's expansion 

Shall we behold her face. 



24 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



And though at times impetuous Avith emotion 

And anguish long suppress'd, 
The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean, 

That cannot be at rest, — 

We will be patient, and assuage the feeling, 

We may not wholly stay ; 
By silence sanctifying, not concealing. 

The grief that must have sway. 



A PASSING THOUGHT. 

O AVHAT a glory doth this world put on 
For him who, with a fervent heart goes forth 
Under the bright and glorious sky and looks 
On duties Avell performed, and days well spent ! 
For him the wind, ay, and the yellow leaves 
Shall have a voice, and give him eloquent teachings. 
He shall so hoar the solemn hymn, that Death 
Has lifted up for all, that he shall go 
To his long resting-place without a tear. 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 25 



EXCELSIOR. 

The shades of night wei'e fiilling fast, 
As through an Alpine village passed 
A youth, who bore, 'mid snow and ice, 
A banner with the strange device — 
Excelsior ! 

His brow was sad ; his eye beneath. 
Flashed like a faulchion from its sheath, 
And like a silver clarion rung 
The accents of that unknown tongue, 
Excelsior ! 

In happy homes he saw the light 
Of household fires gleam warm and bright ; 
Above, the spectral glaciers shone, 
And from his lips escaped a groan. 
Excelsior ! 

' Try not the Pass ! ' the old man said ; ^ 
' Dark lowers the tempest overhead, 
The roaring torrent is deep and wide ! ' 
And loud that clarion voice replied, 
Excelsior ! 



26 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW, 



' O stay,' the maiden said, ' and rest 
Thy weary head upon this breast ! ' 
A tear stood in his bright blue eye. 
But still he answered, with a sigh, 
Excelsior ! 

' Beware the pine-tree's withered branch I 
Beware the awful avalanche ! ' 
This was the peasant's last Good-night, 
A voice replied, far up the height. 
Excelsior ! 

At break of day, as heavenward 
The pious monks of St. Bernard 
Uttered the oft-repeated prayer, 
A voice cried through the startled air 
Excelsior ! 

A traveller, by the faithful hound, 
Half-buried in the snow was found, 
Still grasping in his hand of ice 
That banner with the strange device 
Excelsior ! 

There in the twilight, cold and gray. 
Lifeless, but beautiful, he lay, 
And from the sky, serene and far, 
A voice fell, like a falling star, 
Excelsior ! 



HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 27 



GOD'S-ACRE. 

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls 
The burial-ground God's- Acre ! It is just ; 
It consecrates each grave within its walls, 
■ And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust. 

God's- Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts 
Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown 

The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts. 
Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, 

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again 

At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast 
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. 

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, 
In the fair gardens of that second birth ; 

And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume 

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. 

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, 
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow ; 

This is the field and Acre of our God, 

This is the place, where human harvests grow ! 



28 HENRY W. LONGFELLOW. 



THE RAmY DAY. 

The day is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
The vine still clings to the mouldering wall. 
But at every gust the dead leaves fall, 
And the day is dark and dreary. 

My life is cold, and dark, and dreary ; 
It rains, and the wind is never weary ; 
My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past, 
But the hopes of youth fell thick in the blast 
And the days are dark and dreary. 

Be still, sad heart ! and cease repining ; 
Behind the clouds is the sun still shining ; 
Thy fate is the common fate of all. 
Into each life some rain must fall, 

Some days must be dark and dreary- 



WOMAN'S LOVE 



Mat slisbted woman turn, 
And, as a vine the oak hath shaken off, 
Bend lightly to her leaning trust again? 
O No I by all her loveliness — by all 
That makes life poetry and beauty, no I 
Make her a slave; steal from her rosy cheek 
By needless jealousies; let the last star 
JLeave her a watcher by your couch of pain ; 
Wrong her by petulence, suspicion, all 
That makes her cup a bitterness — yet give 
One evidence of love, and earth has not 
An emblem of devotedness like her. 
But oh I estrange her once— it boots not how- 
By wrong or silence— anything that tells 
A change has come uj^on your tenderness, — 
And there is not a feeling out of heaven 
Her pride o'ermastereth not. 



NATHANIEL PARKER WILLIS 

AGE, 47 YEARS. 



N. P. Willis is a native of the city of Portland, where he -was 
born on the twentieth day of January, 1807. His early years were 
mostly spent in Boston and -vicuiity. He received his prej^aratory 
education at the Phillips Academy, in Andover, Mass., and entered 
Yale College, New-Haven, at an early age, and was graduated from 
it in 1827. Before he had attained the age of twenty, Mi. Willis 
won for himself a then extended and somewhat enduring popularity, 
by his sacred poems and sketches. He soon after published, in 1828, 
a " Poem, delivered before the Society of United Brothers of Bro^^^^ 
University," and his " Sketches," wliich were well received. For two 
years succeeding, he was editor and proprietor of a literary periodical, 
imder the title of " The American Montjily Magazine," which, in 1830, 
was merged into the New-York Mirror, Avith wliich he became connect- 
ed. The following year he went to England, where he became very 
familiar with the leading literary men, and many of the most distin- 
guished personages, of whom he wrote with an unlicensed familiarit}-, 
in his "First Impressions" of the country, people, &c., in a series of 
letters published in the " ^lij-ror," and which were afterwards collect- 
ed and issued in a volume, in London. The freedom with which 
he gave private gossip with distinguished men, to the public, caused 
the volume to be justly and very severely criticised, and also led to 
unfriendly troubles. It is one of Mr. Willis' greatest faults, that he 
allows liimself to give to the public eye, what his own mind should 
tell him was intended only for his private ear. 



32 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

In 1837, Mr. Willis returned to the United States, bringing with 
him his ■wife, an accomplished EngL'sh lady, to -whom he was married 
in 183<5. In a 2)oem to liis mother, he affectionately refers to her as 
follows : — 

But there's a change, beloved mother! 

To stir far deeper thoughts of thine ; 
I come — but with me comes another 

To share the iieart once only mine! 
Thou, on whose thoughts, when sad and lonely, 

One star arose in memory's heaven — 
Thou who hast watched one treasure only — 

Watered one tlower with tears at even — 
Eoom in th)^ heart I The hearth she left 

Is darkened to lend light to ours! 
There arc bright flowers of care bereft, 

And hearts — that languish more than flowers; 
She was their light — their very air — 

Ivoom, mother! in thy heart! place for her in thy prayer! 

This lady is said to have been a most excellent wife, and made 
the poet's home a place of happiness and love. She died a few years 
after, and he married for a second wife^ a Miss Grinnell, of New- 
York city. On his return, he retired to a beautiful country retreat, — 
" Glenmary," situated on the Susquehaima river, and in one of the 
most beautiful and romantic portions of the Empire State. He thus 
alludes, with a beautiful thankfulness, m a " Reverie at Glenmary," to 
the prosperity and happiness that he there enjoyed. 

I have enough, God! My heart to night 
Runs over with its fulness of content. 

» 

Rich, though poor; 
My low roofd cottage is this hour a heaven. 

O Thou who lookest 
Upon my brimming heart this tranquil eve, 
Knowest its fulness, as thou dost the dew 
Sent to the hidden violet by Thee. 

Since then, time and fortune have changed liis lot, and other feet 
now wander amid those once loved scenes, and other voices resound 
within the walls of that low roofed cottage, once so full of happmess. 
i\Ir. Willis made a second visit to England, in 1839, and wliile 
there, published several popular woi-ks, wliich were weU received, 
and had an extensive sale. The foUomng year he returned home 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



again, and soon after published " Letters fi-om under a Bridge," and 
a volume of his " Poems." Since then he has published numerous 
volumes, among wliich are " Life Here and There" — " People I Have 
Met" — "Hurry Graphs" — "Fun Jottings" — " Health Trip to the 
Tropics" — " Summer Cruise in the Mediterranean" — " Famous Persons 
and Places ; " — also a number of illustrated volumes of History, &c., for 
London houses. He now resides at " IdleA\ild," his beautiful summer 
residence, situated upon the bank of the Hudson, and where he is still 
devoted to the literature of fashionable life. He is also connected 
with George P. Morris, the poet, as editor and proprietor of the 
" Home Journal," one of the ablest literary weeklies in this coimtry. 

Since wiiting the foregoing brief sketch, we have received the 
painfid intelligence that Mr. Willis is now in very feeble health, and 
failing daily, and we are fearful that the pen that has often beguiled 
our leism-e hom-s yviih a sprightly, charming interest, Mill soon be laid 
aside, never more to be resumed. We shall miss him. He has 
written as no other can. There was an originality, — in fact, a par- 
ticular and peculiar branch of hteratm-e that suited his talent, and in 
which he was excelled by none. But now the blighting influence that 
heralds the approach of death, has silenced, perhaps forever. Iris fi*uit- 
ful pen. He is a bright star in the literary firmament, that going 
out, still retains its brilliant light, glowing with a jjurer and holier 
softness as it disappears from our "siew. We camiot refrain from in- 
cluding here, a brief portion of j\Ir. Willis' last letter, and the remarks 
of the poet Bryant, of the NeAV-York ' Evening Post' : 

" But consumption, mom-ned over as it is, seems to me a gentle 
untying of the knot of life, instead of the sudden and harsh tearing 
asunder of its tlu'eads by other disease — a tenderness in the destroy- 
ing angel, as it were, which greatly softens, for some, his ine\itable 
errand to all. It is a decay with Uttle or no pam, insensible almost in 
its progress, delayed sometimes, year after year, in its more fatal ap- 
proaches. And it is not alone in its indulgent prolonging and defer- 
ring, that consumption is like a blessing. The cords which it first 
loosens are the coarser ones most confining to the mind. The weight 
of the material senses is gr'adually taken from the soul vdth the light- 
ening of their food and the lessening of their strength. Probably, 
till he ovms himself an invalid, no man has ever given the wings of 
his spirit room enough — few, if any, have thought to adjust the min- 



34: NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



isterings to body and soul so as to subdue the senses to their seconda- 
ry place and play. With illness enough for this, and not enough to 
distress or weaken — with consumption, in other words, as most com- 
monly experienced — the mind becomes conscious of a wonderfully 
new freedom and predominance. Tilings around alter their value. 
Estimates of persons and piu'suits strangely change. Nature seems 
as newly beautiful as if a film had fallen from the eyes. The pm-er 
affections, the simpler motives, the himibler and more secluded reli- 
ances for sympathy, are found to have been the closest-linked with 
thoughts bolder and freer. Who has not wondered at the cheerful- 
ness of consumptive persons ? It is because, with the senses kept un- 
der by invalid treatment, there is no " depression of spirits." With 
careful regimen and the system purified and disciplined, life, what 
there is of it, is in the most exhilerating balance of its varied propor- 
tions. Death is not dreaded where there is, thus, such a conscious 
breaking through of the \dngs, of another life, freer and higher." 
******* 
" And here the ' Letters from Idlewild ' come to an end. The au- 
thor has thus long, not too long, he trusts — made the readers of the 

' Home Joimial' guests at his home He assm-es these 

kind thousands that the memory of their sympathetic feelings vnll be 
tenderly cherished in liis heart, though the gate of ' Idlemld' is here 
shut upon the pen, that is then- servant." 

The reader cannot fail to observe the calm and yielduig resigna- 
tion to his fate, that is revealed in the foregomg closing portion of 
INIr. Willis' farewell letter from ' Idlewild.' Mr. Bryant says of it, 

" We have read -with deep emotion, the valedictory letter of Mr. 
Willis, from ' Idlemld.' Death, after all, with all the gilding from 
the sunlight beyond, is a dark cloud to pass through ; and the last 
parting with those who have done much to brighten this side of the 
mysterious valley for us, as they step down into its shadows, is not 
easy. INIr. WilKs is one of the most fascmating writers in the EngUsh 
language — and M'ho, to-day, \nll remember anything of his productions 
but their excellences ? This letter Avill moisten eyes in -ftidely-scat- 
tered homes, where the face and form of the author are unlmo^ii, but 
where Ms writings have beguiled many an hour of its weariness. It 
is lilte the love music of a long familiar harp, whose chords we know 
are breaking." 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 35 



THE CONFESSIONAL. 



When thou hast met with careless hearts and cold, 
Hearts that young love may touch, but never hold, — 
Not changeless, as the loved and left of old — 

liemember me— remember me — 

1 passionately pray of thee 1 

Lady E. S. Wortlet. 



I THOUGHT of thee — I thought of thee, 

On ocean many a weary night — 
When heaved the long and sullen sea, 

With only waves and stars in sight. 
We stole along by isles of balm, 

We furl'd before the coming gale, 
We slept amid the breathless calm, 

We flew beneath the straining sail — 
But thou wert lost for years to me, 
And, day and night, I thought of thee ! 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

In France — amid the gay saloon, 
Where eyes, as dark as eyes may be 

Are many as the leaves in June — 
Where life is love, and even the air 

Is pregnant Avith impassion'd thought, 
And song and dance and music are 

With one warm meaning fraught — 
My half- snared heart broke lightly free, 
And, with a blush, I thought of thee. 



36 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

I tliought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Florence — where the fiery hearts 
Of Italy are breathed away 

In wonders of the deathless arts ; 
Where strays the Contadina down 

Val d'Arno with a song of old ; 
Where clime and woman seldom frown, 

And life runs over sands of gold ; 
I stray' d to lone Fiesole 
On many an eve, and thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Rome, — when on the Palatine 
Night left the Csesars' palace free 

To Time's forgetful foot and mine; 
Or, on the Coliseum's wall. 

When moonlight touch'd the ivied stone. 
Reclining, with a thought of all 

That o'er this scene has come and gone — 
The shades of Rome would start and flee 
Unconsciously — I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

In Vallombrosia's holy shade. 
Where nobles born the friars be 

By life's rude changes humbler made. 
Here Milton framed his Paradise ; 

I slept within his very cell ; 
And, as I closed my weary eyes, 

I thought the cowl would fit me well — 
The cloisters breathed, it seem'd to me, 
Of heart's-ease — but I thought of thee. 



'NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 37 

I thouglit of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Venice, — on a night in June ; 
When, through the city of the sea. 

Like dust of silver slept the moon. 
Slow turnM his oar the gondolier. 

And, as the black barks glided by. 
The water to my leaning ear 

Bore back the lover's passing sigh — 
It was no place alone to be — 
I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

In the Ionian isles- — when straying 
With wise Ulysses by the sea — 

Old Homer's songs around me playing ; 
Or, watching the bewitch'd caique, 

That o'er the star-lit waters flew, 
I listen' d to the helmsman Greek, 

Who sung the song that Sappho knew — 
The poet's spell, the bark, the sea. 
All vanish'd — as I thought of thee. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee. 

In Greece — when rose the Parthenon 
Majestic o'er the Egean sea. 

And heroes with it, one by one ; 
When, in the grove of Academe, 

Where Lais and Leontium stray'd 
Discussing Plato's mystic theme, 

I lay at noontide in the shade — 
The Egean wind, the whispering tree, 
Had voices — and I thought of thee. 



38 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

In Asia — on the Dardanelles ; 
Where swiftly as the waters flee, 

Each wave some sweet old story tells ; 
And, seated by the marble tank 

Which sleeps by Ilium's ruins old, 
(The fount where peerless Helen drank, 

And Venus laved her locks of gold,) (Z») 
I thrill'd such classic haunts to see, 
Yet even here — I thought of thee 

I thought of thee — I thought of thee, 

Where glide the Bosphor's lovely waters, 
All palace-lined from sea to sea ; 

And ever on its shores the daughters 
Of the delicious East are seen, 

Printing the brink with slipper'd feet ; 
And oh, the snowy folds between. 

What eyes of heaven your glances meet ! 
Peris of light no fairer be — 
Yes — in Stamboul — I thought of thee. 

I've thought of thee — I've thought of thee, 

Through change that teaches to forget; 
Thy face looks up from every sea. 

In every star thine eyes are set, 
Though roving beneath Orient skies. 

Whoso golden beauty breathes of rest ; 
I envy every bird that flies 

Into the far and clouded W^est : 
I think of thee — I think of thee ! 
Oh, dearest ! hast thou thought of me ? 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 39 



THOUGHTS 

"W^IILE MAKING A GRAVE FOR A NEW-BORN CHILD. 

Room, gentle flowers ! my child would pass to heaven ! 
Ye look'd not for her yet with yoiir soft eyes, 

watchful ushers at Death's narrow door ! 
But lo ! Avhile you delay to let her forth, 
Angels, beyond, stay for her ! One long kiss 
From lips all pale with agony, and tears, 
Wrung after anguish had dried up with fire 
The eyes that wept, were the cup of life 

Held as a welcome to her. Weep ! oh, mother ! 
But not that from this cup of bitterness 
A cherub of the sky has turn'd away. 

Ono look upon thy face ere thou depart! 
My daughter ! It is soon to let thee go ! 
My daughter ! With thy birth has gush'd a spring 

1 knew not of — filling my heart with tears, 
And turning with strange tenderness to thee — 

A love — oh, God ! it seems so — which must flow 
Far as thou flecst, and 'twixt heaven and mc, 
Henceforward, be a bright and yearning chain 
Drawing me after thee ! And so, fxrewell I 
'Tis a harsh world, iu which aff"ection knows 
No place to treasure up its loved and lost 
But the lone grave. 



40 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS, 



Thou, who so late wast sleeping 

Warm in the close fold of a mother's heart, 

Scarce from her breast a single pulse receiving, 

But it was sent thee with some tender thought, 

How can I leave thee, here ! Alas — for man ! 

The herb in its humility may fall 

And waste into the bright and genial air, 

While we — by hands that minister'd in life 

Nothing but love to us — are thrust away, 

The earth thrown in upon our just cold bosoms, 

And the warm sunshine trodden out forever ! 

Yet have I chosen for thy grave, my child, 
A bank where I have lain in summer hours ! 
And thought how little it would seem like death 
To sleep amid such loveliness. The brook 
Tripping with laughter down the rocky steps 
That lead up to thy bed, would still trip on. 
Breaking the dread hush of the mourners gone ; 
The birds are never silent thac build here, 
Trying to sing down the more vocal waters : 
The slope is beautiful with moss and flowers. 
And far below, seen under arching leaves. 
Glitters the warm sun on the village spire, 
Pointinnj the livino: after thee. 



And this seems like a comfort ; and, replacing now 
The flowers that have made room for thee, I go 
To whisper the same peace to her who lies — 
Robb'd of her child — and lonely. 'Tis the work 
Of many a dark hour, and of many a prayer, 
To bring the heart back from an infant gone. 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 41 

Hope must give o'er, and busy fancy blot 

The images from all the silent rooms, 

And every sight and sound familiar to her 

Undo its sweetest link — and so at last 

The fountain — that, once struck, must flow forever — 

Will hide and waste in silence. When the smile 

Steals to her pallid lip again, and Spring 

Wakens its buds above thee, we will come, 

And, standing by thy music-haunted grave, 

Look on each other cheerfully, and say : — 

A child that we have loved is gone to heaven, 

And hy this gate of Jlowers she i^ass'd away ! 



FILIAL LOVE. 

Mother ! dear mother ! the feeling nurst 

As I hung at thy bosom, clung round thee first. 

'Twas the earliest link in love's warm chain ; 

'Tis the only one that will long remain ; 

And as, year by year, and day by day. 

Some friend still trusted drops away. 

Mother ! dear mother ! oh, dost thou see 

How the shortcn'd chain brings me nearer thee ! 



43 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



THE AOTOYER. 



Common as light is love, 
And its familiar voice Avearies not ever. — Shelley. 



LoYE knoweth every form of air, 

And every shape of earth, 
And comes, unbidden, everywhere, 

Like thought's mysterious birth. 
The moonlit sea and the sunset sky 

Are written with Love's words, 
And you hear his voice unceasingly, 

Like song in the time of birds. 

He peeps into the warrior's heart 

From the tip of a stooping plume, 
And the serried spears and the many men 

May not deny him room. 
He'll come to his tent in the weary night, 

And be busy in his dream ; 
And he'll float to his eye in morning light 

Like a fay on a silver beam. 

He hears the sound of the hunter's gun, 

And rides on the echo back, 
And sighs in his ear, like a stirring leaf, 

And flits in his woodland tiack. 
The shade of the wood, and the sheen of the river, 

The cloud and the open sky — 
He will haunt them all with his subtle quiver, 

Like the light of your very eye. 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 43 

The fisher hangs over the leaning boat, 

And ponders the silver sea, 
For love -is under the surface hid, 

And a spell of thought has he. 
He heaves the wave like a bosom sweet. 

And speaks in the ripple low, 
Till the bait is gone from the crafty line, 

And the hook hangs bare below. 

He blurs the print of the scholar's book, 

And intrudes in the maiden's prayer. 
And profanes the cell of the holy man, 

In the shape of a lady fair. 
In the darkest night, and the bright daylight, 

In earth, and sea, and sky, 
In every home of human thought, 

Will Love be lurking nigh. 



44 



NATHANIEL P. AVILLIS. 



PARRHASIUS. 



How like a mounting devil in the heart 
Kules the unreined ambition ! (c) 



' Bring me the captive now ! 
My hand feels skillful, and the shadows lift 
From my waked spirit airily and swift, 

And I could paint the bow 
Upon the bended heavens — around me play 
Colours of such divinity to-day. 

' Ha ! bind him on his back ! 
Look ! — as Prometheus in my picture here ! 
Quick — or he faints ! — stand with the cordial near ! 

Now — bend him to the rack ! 
Press down the poison'd links into his flesh ! 
And tear agape that healing wound afresh ! 



' So — let him Avrithe ! How long 
Will he live thus ? Quick, my good pencil, now ! 
What a fine agony works upon his brow ! 

Ha ! gray hair'd, and so strong ! 
How fearfully he stifles that short moan ! 
Gods ! if I could but paint a dying groan ! 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



45 



' Pity thee ! So I do ! 
I pity the dumb victim at the altar — 
But does the rohcd priest for his 'pify falter ? 

I'd rack thee though I knew 
A thousand lives were perishing in thine — 
What were ten thousand to a fame like mine ? 



' * Hereafter ' ! Ay — hereafter ! 
A whip to keep a coward to his track ! 
What gave Death ever from his kingdom back 

To check the skeptic's laughter ? 
Come from the grave to-morrow with that story - 
And I may take some softer path to glory. 

'No, no, old man ! we die 
Even as the flowers, and we shall breathe away 
Our life upon the chance wind, even as they ! 

Strain well thy fainting eye — 
For when that bloodshot quivering is o'er, 
The li";ht of heaven will never reach thee more. 



' Yet there's a deathless name ! 
A spirit that the smothering vault shall spurn, 
And like a steadfast planet mount and burn — 

And though its crown of flame 
Consumed my brain to ashes as it shone, 
By all the fiery stars ! I'd bind it on ! 



46 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



' Ay — though it bid me rifle 
My heart's last fount for its insatiate thirst — 
Though every life-strung nerve be madden'd first — 

Though it should bid me stifle 
The yearning in my throat for my sweet child, 
And taunt its mother till my brain went Avild — 



'All — I would do it all — 
Sooner than die, like a dull worm, to rot — 
Thrust foully into earth to be forgot ! 

Oh heavens ! — but I appal 
Your heart, old man ! forgive — ha ! on your lives 
Let him not faint ! — rack him till he revives ! 



' Vain — vain — give o'er ! His eye 
Glazes apace. He does not feel you now — 
Stand back ! I'll paint the death dew on his brow ! 

Gods ! if he do not die 
But for one moment — one — till I eclipse 
Conception with the scorn of those calm lips ! 

'_^Shivering ! Plark ! he mutters 
Brokenly now — that Avas a difficult breath — 
Another ? Wilt thou never come, oh Death ! 

Look ! how his temple flutters ! 
Is his heart still ? Aha ! lift up his head ! 
He shudders — gasps — Jove help him ! — so — he's dead.' 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 47 



THE BELFRY PIGEON. 

On the cross-beam under the Old South bell 
The nest of a pigeon is builded well. 
In summer and winter that bird is there, 
Out and in with the morning air : 
I love to see him track the street, 
With his wary eye and active feet ; 
And I often watch him as he springs, 
Circling the steeple with easy wings, 
Till across the dial his shade has pass'd, 
And the belfry edge is gain'd at last. 

'Tis a bird I love, with its brooding note. 

And the trembling throb in its mottled throat ; 

There's a human look in its swelling breast, 

And the gentle curve of its lowly crest ; 

And I often stop with the fear I feel — 

He runs so close to the rapid wheel. 

Whatever is rung on that noisy bell — 

Chime of the hour or funeral kneli — 

The dove in the belfry must hear it well. 

When the tongue swings out to the midnight moon- 

When the sexton cheerly rings for noon — 

When the clock strikes clear at morning light — 

When the child is Avaked with * nine at night ' — 

When the chimes play soft in the Sabbath air, 



48 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



Filling the spirit Avith tones of prayer — 
"Whatever tale in the bell is heard, 
He broods on his folded feet unstirr'd, 
Or, rising half in his rounded nest, 
He takes the time to smooth his breast, 
Then drops again with filmed eyes, 
And sleeps as the last vibration dies. 



Sweet bird ! I would that I could be 
A hermit in the crowd like thee ! 
With wings to fly to wood and glen, 
Thy lot, like mine, is cast with men ; 
And daily, with unwilling feet, 
I tread, like thee, the crowded street ; 



But, unlike me, Avhen day is o'er, 
Thou canst dismiss the Avorld and soar, 
Or, at a half-felt wish for rest, 
Canst smooth the feathers on thy breast. 
And drop, forgetful, to thy nest. 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 49 



TIRED OF PLAY. 

TO A PICTURE OF A CHILD AT PLAY. 

TiKED of play ! Tired of play ! 
What hast thou done this livelong day ? 
The birds are silent, and so is the bee ; 
The sun is creeping up steeple and tree ; 
The doves have flown to the sheltering eaves, 
And the nests are dark with the drooping leaves ; 
Twilight gathers, and day is done — 
How hast thou spent it — restless one ? 

Playing ! But what hast thou done beside 
To tell thy mother at eventide ? 
What promise of morn is left unbroken ? 
What kind word to thy playmate spoken ? 
Whom hast thou pitied, and whom forgiven? 
How Avith thy faults has duty striven ? 
What hast thou learn'd by field and hill, 
By greenwood path, and singing rill ? 

There will come an eve to a longer day, 
That will find thee tired — but not of play ! 
And thou wilt lean — as thou leanest now, 
With drooping limbs and aching brow, 
And wish the shadows would faster creep, 
And long to go to thy quiet sleep. 
Well were it then if thine aching brow 
Were as free from sin and shame as now ! 



50 NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 

Well for thee, if tby lip could tell 
A tale like this, of a day spent well. 
If thine open hand had relieved distress — 
If thy pity had sprung to wretchedness — 
If thou hast forgiven the sore offence, 
And humbled thy heart with penitence — 
If Nature's voices have spoken to thee 
With her holy meanings eloquently — 

If every creature hath won thy love, 

From the creeping worm to the brooding dove — 

If never a sad, low spoken Avord 

Hath plead with thy human heart unheard — 

Then, when the night steals on, as now, 

It will bring relief to thine aching brow, 

And, with joy and peace at the thought of rest, 

Thou wilt sink to sleep on thy mother's breast. 



NATHANIEL P, WILLIS. 51 



APRIL. 



A violet bj' a mossy stone, 

Half-hidden from the eye, 
Fair as a star when only one 

Is shining in the sky.— Wordsworth. 



I HAVE found violets ! April hath come on, 

And the cool winds feel softer, and the rain 

Falls in the beaded drops of summer-time. 

You may hear birds at morning and at eve, 

The tame dove lingers till the twilight falls, 

Cooing upon the eaves, and drawing in 

His beautiful, bright neck ; and, from the hills, 

A murmur like the hoarseness of the sea, 

Tells the release of Avaters, and the earth 

Sends up a pleasant smell, and the dry leaves 

Are lifted by the grass ; and so I know 

That Nature, with her delicate ear, hath heard 

The dropping of the velvet foot of Spring, 

Take of my violets ! I found them where 

The liquid south stole o'er them, on a bank 

That lean'd to running water. There's to me 

f . 
A daintiness about these early flowers, 

That touches me like poetry. They blow 

With such a simple loveliness among 

The common herbs of pasture, and breathe out 

Their lives so unobtrusively, like hearts 

Whose beatings are too gentle for the world. 

I love to go in the capricious days 



52 



NATHANIEL P. WILLIS. 



Of April and hunt violets, when the rain 
Is in the blue cups trembling, and they nod 
So gracefully to the kisses of the Avind. 
It may be deem'd too idle, but the young 
Read nature like the manuscript of Heaven, 
And call the flowers its poetry. Go out ! 
Ye spirits of habitual unrest, 
And read it, when the ' fever of the world ' 
Hath made your hearts impatient, and, if life 
Hath yet one spring unpoison'd, it will be 
Like a beguiling music to its flow. 
And you will no more wonder that I love 
To hunt for violets in the April-time. 



TWILIGHT MUSINGS. 



Beautiful Evening! my bewildered brain 

And aching bosom, with fond orisons, bless 

The coming of thy shadows— faint with pain, (d) 

And yearning for the hours of quietness 

That follow the twilight. The fair morn 

Unfurls o'er Eastern hills her dolphin dyes; 

But O majestic Eve, to thee I turn 

With heart enchanted, and undazzled eyes. 

Give me to breathe thy fragrance. Where the dews 

Clasp with their delicate arms the violet-bell. 

Give me to wander where the stream doth choose 

Its murmuring journey down the dim green dell 

With chary dainties. There would I bow 

Unto thy silver glories, as before 

The Persian worshipped— with a better vow, 

And a diviner spirit, than of yore. 

Then grant me thy communion. Swell my soul 

With the sweet awe of silence. Look on me 

With the bright stars of thy resplendent pole— 

And let me learn their teachings. I shall be 

A worshipper of Heaven. I shall dream 

Of the high land Ilong for. I shall see 

The stirring of the myriad palm-boughs and gleam 

Of seraphs pinions. From the boundless throng 

Of the unnumbered holy, I shall hear 

Faintly, the choral anthem. So the song 

Of Ocean's surges falls upon the ear 

Of slumbering mariner— and so the bird 

That loves the sombre night, o'er the far wave is heard. 



BENJAMIN BUSSEY THATCHER. 

DIED, AGED 31 YEARS. 

B. B, Thatcher was the tliird son of the Hon. Samuel Thatcher, 
of Bangor, and was bom in the town of Warren, on the eighth day of 
October, 1809. He received his early education at the Warren Acad- 
emy, and entered Bowdoiii College, one year in advance, at the age 
of thu'teen years, and graduated mth distinction, in 1823. A short 
time after this, he became a student in the law office of Messrs. 
Hill & Starrett, at Bangor, in wlaich city his father and brother resid- 
ed. He remained there for some time, and then removed to Boston, 
and finished his law studies with the Hon. EHjah Morse, and on his 
admission to the SuifoUc Bar, became associated in practice with Wil- 
liam Brigham, Esq. While residing m Bangor, he did much to- 
wards the improvement and mental culture of the citizens, by the es- 
tabUshment of a " Debating Club," wliich afterwards became merged 
into a " Lyceum," and was the means of contributing much to the 
happiness and intellectual improvement of its members. We believe 
he also, in connection, established a literary journal. 

Mr. Thatcher commenced his literary career, in the city of Bos- 
ton, as a contributor to the leading Magazines and Journals then pub- 
lished, and among them was the " New-England Magazine," to wliich 
Longfellow, Tuckerman, Lowell, Benjamin, Holmes, Emerson, Win- 
throp, and other distinguished Uterary men contributed, with whom 
he was an associate. His only published works are, " Indian Biogra- 
phy," and " Indian Traits," although at his death he left a large amount 
of manuscript matter, which has never been pubHshed. He spent some 



56 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 

considerable time in Europe, and prepared extensive notes for a vol- 
ume of Travels, but his feeble health prevented him from finishing it 
before his death. He was connected Avith the " Boston Mercantile 
Jom-nal," as Editor, when first established, and continued as such un- 
til his failing health obliged him to relinquish it. He was also con- 
nected with other Boston journals, in different capacities. He was a 
gentleman of pleasing manners, and liighly esteemed by his fiiends 
for his Christian character, and the purity of his talent. 

He died in Boston, on the fom'teenth day of July, 1840, as many 
others have done, a Aactim to an unsatisfiable desire for knowledge. 
This sad event called forth a very handsome tributary poem from his 
old class-mate and friend, Isaac McLellan, Esq., which we here 
msert. 

Hark ! the funeral bell is tolling — 

Calling to the grave's retreat! 
And the funeral car is rolling 

Through the city's crowded street. 
Soon the damp cold earth will hold thee 

In its dark and solemn rest — 
Soon the grassy turf will fold thee 

Closely to its heaving breast. 

O'er thy pallid brow a shadow 

From, the wing of deatli is cast, 
From thy sparkling eye the brightness 

That illumined it hath pass'd. 
May the green grass o'er thee sighing, 

Whisper forth its tenderest air; 
May the wild birds in their flying, 

Four their mellowest sorrows there. 

Quenched is now thy studious taper, 

And thy chair holds thee no more, 
For the scholar's vigil's ended — 

His task is done, his toil is o'er. 
The spider on thy shelf is weaving 

His untouched net from book to book, 
And low the poet's harp is resting — 

Neglected iu his favorite nook. 

The thoughtless world may soon forget thee, 

But, in many a heart thy name 
Shall keep its sweet and precious perfume, 

In bloom and freshness still the same. 
O'er Time's wide sands the rolling billow 

May dim the print of thy career, 
Yet Love and Memory still will cherish 

For thee the sacred sigh and tear. 



BENJAMIN B. THATCHEE. 57 



Classmate, gentle Classmate! fast 

Tlie dizzy wheel of time flies round! 
Scarce a moment doth it seem 

Since thy blushing brow was bound 
With the cloistered college crown, 
Meekly worn, but nobly won. 
As our little band departed, 

Pilgrims from our classic home. 
Joyous each and hajipy-hearted. 

Through life's untried scenes to roam, 
Little wrecked we of its sorrow. 
Joy to-day and grief to-morrow ! 
But alas, the thorny way 

Hath entangled many feet, 
• And how many are reposing 

Where the churchyard tenants meet! 
But no purer name than thine 
Fills the tablet's mournful line. 

Ashes to ashes — dust to dust! 

'Tis written that the glowing cheek 
In its youthful bloom must fade, 

As fades the rainbow's painted streak. 
The silver head, the locks of gold. 

The reverend sage, the humble child. 
Must vanish, with the crumbling mould 
In rolling hillock's o'er them piled! 

Gentle Pilgrim— fare thee well ! 

In thy dewy morn of day. 
Yielding scrip and staff and shell, 

Thou hast fainted by the way ! 
All who fill this vast procession. 

Travelling down the vale of tears, 
Will be shortly sleeping with thee. 

Vexed no more with toils and tears. 

The editor of the " Boston Mercantile Journal," pays the follow- 
ing tribute to his suijerior talent, and liigh Christian character, in an 
obituary notice of his death. The editor of " the New-York Journal 
of Commerce," of wliich Mr. Thatcher was a correspondent, paid him- 
a like worthy tribute. 

" Mr. Thatcher is well known in this country and in Europe, for 
his scientific and literary attainments — and Avherever known has been 
respected and loved for his kind disposition, and his high moral qual- 
ities, as well as for the great variety of knowledge which he was mas- 
ter of — and the annomicement of liis death ^\ill carry sadness to many 



58 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 

a heart. He was educated to the profession of the law, but his great 
aim through life apjsears to have been to acquire knowledge, and to 
diffuse it abroad for the purpose of enlightening, elevating and im- 
proraig the human race. For several years past he has devoted him- 
self exclusively to Hterary pursuits — and if his career, by a wise Prov- 
idence, had not been abridged, he would have been surpassed by few 
of liis comitrj-men in rendering true service to his country — and 
would have acquired a fame to endure for ages. Many of his writings 
are before the world — they bear the stamp of worth, and have been 
read with much interest in this country and Europe — and he has 
doubtless left many important manuscripts, which, it is to be hoped, 
liis friends will give the public at some future day. Mr. Thatcher 
was at one time editor of this paper — and since it has been committed 
to our care, the columns have fi-equently been emiched by his contri- 
butions — and in his death we lose " a friend, faithful and just." It is 
now nearly two years since he returned from Europe, where he had 
passed many months, in travel, and in studjing the manners and char- 
acteristics of the inhabitants — chiefly in Great Britain. He was there 
attacked mth a chronic affection of the stomach — and on his return to 
this country, he suffered much from ill health. Since then, he has 
been gradually decHning — but he has never neglected Ms literary pm'- 
suits, or his accustomed exercise of walking, until within a few days. 
He was conscious of the approach of death, wlaich at last came upon 
him suddenly — but he met the grim king of terrors like a Clu'istian 
philosopher — and his last moments were soothed by the benignant spfrit 
of Religion. The death of B, B. Thatcher has left a blank in society 
that wiU not be easily filled." 



BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 59 



THE BIRD OF THE BASTILE. 

Come to my breast, thou lone 

And weary bird (c) ! — one tone 
Of the rare music of my childhood ! — dear 

Is that strange sound to me ; 

Dear is the memory 
It brings my soul of many a parted year. 

Again, yet once again, 

O minstrel of the main ! 
Lo ! festal face and form familiar throng 

Unto my waking eye ; 

And voices of the sky 
Sing from the walls of death unwonted song. 

Nay, cease not — I would call, 

Thus, from the silent hall 
Of the unlighted grave, the joys of old : 

Beam on me yet once more, 

Ye blessed eyes of yore, 
Startling life-blood through all my being cold. 

Ah ! cease not — phantoms fair 

Fill thick the dungeon's air ; 
They wave me from its gloom — I fly — I stand 

Again upon that spot, 

Which ne'er hath been forgot 
In all time's tears, my own green, glorious land ! 



60 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 

There, on each noon-bright hill, 

By fount and flashing rill. 
Slowly the faint flocks sought the breezy shade ; 

There gleam'd the sunset's fire. 

On the tall taper spire. 
And windows low, along the upland glade. 

Sing, sing ! — I do not dream — 

It is my own blue stream, 
Far, far beloAV, amid the balmy vale ; — 

I know it by the hedge 

Of rose-trees at its edge. 
Vaunting their crimson beauty to the gale : 

There, there, mid clust'ring leaves. 

Glimmer my father's eaves. 
And the worn threshold of my youth beneath ; — 

I know them by the moss, 

And the old elms that toss 
Their lithe arms up where winds the smoke's gray wreath. 

Sing, sing ! — I am not mad — 

Sing ! that the visions glad 
May smile that smiled, and speak that spake but now ; — 

Sing, sing ! — I might have knelt 

And pray'd ; I might have felt 
Their breath upon my bosom and my brow. 

I might have pressed to this 

Cold bosom, in my bliss. 
Each long lost form that ancient hearth beside ; 

O heaven ! I might have heard, 

From living lips, one word, 
Thou mother of my childhood, — and have died. 



BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 61 

Nay, nay, 'tis sweet to weep, 

Ere yet in death I sleep ; 
It minds me I have heen, and am again, — 

And the world wakes around ; 

It breaks the madness bound, 
"While I have dream'd, those ages, on my brain. 

And sweet it is to love 

Even this gentle dove. 
This breathing thing from all life else apart : — 

Ah ! leave me not the gloom 

Of my eternal tomb 
To bear alone — alone ! — come to my heart, 

My bird ! — Thou shalt go free ; 

And come, O come to me 
Again, when from the hills the spring-gale blows ; 

So shall I learn, at least. 

One other year hath ceased, 
And the long woe throbs lingering: to its close. 



62 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 



WEEP NOT FOR THE DEAD. 

Oh, lightly, lightly tread 
Upon these early ashes, ye that weep 
For her that slumbers in the dreamless sleep, 

Of this eternal bed ! 

Hallow her humble tomb 
With your kind sorrow, ye that knew her well, 
And climbed with her youth's brief but brilliant dell, 

'Mid sunlight and fair bloom. 

Glad voices %vhispered round 
As from the stars, — bewildering harmonies, — 
And visions of sweet beauty filled the skies, 

And the wide vernal ground 

With hopes like blossoms shone : 
Oh, vainly these shall glow, and vainly wreathe 
Verdure for the veiled bosom, that may breathe 

No joy — no answering tone. 

Yet weep not for the dead 
That in the glory of green youth do fall. 
Ere phrenzied passion or foul sin one thrall 

Upon their souls hath spread. 



BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 63 

Weep not ! They are at rest 
From misery, and madness, and all strife, 
That makes but night of day, and death of life. 

In the grave's peaceful breast. 

Nor ever more shall come 
To them the breath of envy, nor the rankling eye 
Shall follow them, where side by side they lie — 

Defenceless, noiseless, dumb. 

Aye — though their memory's green. 
In the fond heart, where love for them was born, 
With sorrow's silent dews, each eve, each morn, 

Be freshly kept, unseen — 

Yet weep not ! They shall soar 
As the freed eagle of the skies, that pined, 
But pines no more, for his own mountain wind, 

And the old ocean-shore. 

Rejoice ! rejoice ! How long 
Should the faint spirit wrestle with its clay, 
Fluttering in vain for the far cloudless day, 

And for the angel's song ? 

It mounts ! it mounts ! Oh, spread 
The banner of gay victory — and sing 
For the enfranchised — and bright garlands bring — 

But weep not for the dead ! 



64 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 



I WILL REMEMBER THEE. 

I wiLi, remember thee ; thy form Avill be 

Mingled with lingering images of all 
That gave those lost hours wings of bliss to me, 

When, arm and arm, Ave wandered where the fall 
Of this, thy river's radiant fountains made 
The sunset-silence musical, under its fringing shade. 

I will remember thee, with loveliest bloom 

Of early roses, such as these thy hand 
■Culled for me in the grave-yard's flowery gloom, 

(Where rest thy sister's ashes, in the land 
Of dark and long oblivion ;) likest thee, 
Their bursting, blushing charms, and therefore dear to me. 

I will remember thee, when woods, as now, 
O'ershadow me at noontide ; and the sweet 

Breathings of virgin violets, as pure as thou, 

No purer, from dim moss-banks of the. hill-side greet 

Me in the weary wanderings, 'mid the trees 

Of mine own fathcr-clime — to 'mind me but of these. 

I'll think of thee with streamlets ; and green leaves 
Shall murmur of thee ; and the fairest star 

That shines above me, as mild evening weaves 
Her round pavilion in its splendor — far. 

But not forgotten — will I sadly choose 

To link with thoughts of thee, when most I love to muse. 



BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 65 

I will remember thee, in coming days, 

When I may tread the stranger's lonely shore, 

And ponder upon old temples in the haze 

Of twilight — where the mighty are no more — 

(Though still the soil teems richly with the pride 

Of buried greatness, and the skies are dyed 

With hues of gone-down glory :) even then, 

And there, the memory of the loveliness 
That cheered this solitude, may cheer again — 

The echo of past pleasure — and thy grace 
Bless me in all things ; lady, on the sea 
Or land, in joy or anguish, I'll remember thee ! 



66 BENJAMIN B. THATCHER. 



TO A SISTER 

EMBAKKING ON A MISSIONARY ENTERPRISE. 

i:- a- i!- Thou knowest well 
The work that is before thee, and the joys 
That are behind. Now, be the past forgot — 
The youthful love, the hearth-light and the home, 
Song, dance, and story, and the vows — the vows 
That we change not, and part not unto death — 
Yea, all the spirit of departed bliss. 
That even now, like spirits of the dead. 
Seen dimly in the living mourner's dreams, 
And thrilling, ever and anon, the notes 
Long loved of old — 0, hear them, heed them not. 
Press on ! for, like the fairies of the tale, 
That mocked, unseen, the tempted traveller, 
With power alone o'er those who gave them ear, 
They would but turn thee from thy high resolve. 
Then look not back ! O, triumph in the strength 
Of an exalted purpose ! Eagle-like, 
Press sunward on. Thou shalt not be alone. 
Have but an eye on God, as surely God 
AVill have an eye on thee — press on! press on ! 



TO MY MOTHER. 

My Mother ! I am far away 

From home, and love, and thee; 

And stranger hands will heap the clay 

That soon may cover me ; 

Yet we shall meet— perhaps not here, 

But in yon shining, azure sphere : 

And if there's aught assures me more, 

Ere yet my spirit fly. 

That heaven has mercy still in store. 

For such a wretch as 1, 

'Tis that a heart so good as thine. 

Must bleed — must burst along with mine. 

And life is short at best, and Time 
Must soon prepare the tomb ; 
And there is sure a happier clime, 
Beyond this world of gloom — 
And should it be my happy lot — 
After a life of care and pain. 
In sadness spent, or spent in vain — 
To go where sighs and sin are not — 
' Twill make the half my heaven to be. 
My Mother, evermore with thee ! 



ELIJAH PARISH L Y E J 0.1 



DIED, A.GED 35 YEARS. 

E. P. LovEJOY was the eldest son of the late Rev. Daniel Love- 
joy, of Albion, Kennebec Comity, a man of unspotted jjiety, and 
highly respected for Ms arduous labors in the diffusion of the gospel 
throughout the then viildemess part of Maine. His son Elijah, was 
bom in that to-rni, on the mnth of November, 1802. At a very early 
age he displayed a determined resoluteness and firmness that do doubt, 
in after years, was the true cause of his death. He was eager for 
knowledge, and S2)ent all of his spare moments in study, and but 
few young men in the State have ever made more rapid progress than 
did he. His preparatory education Avas received at the Monmouth 
and China Academies, and he entered Water\dlle College, as a Sopho- 
more, in 1S28, his expenses while there, being defrayed, mostly, by 
that good and benevolent Christian, Rev. Dr. Tappan, of Augusta. 
Before entering College, he eAinced considerable poetic talent, and 
wrote some very creditable verses. On gi-aduating, in 1826, he re- 
ceived the first honors of his class, and pronomiced a poem before it; 
entitled " Inspiration of the Muse," a portion of wliich we have includ- 
ed in our selections. In a letter to liis brother, the Rev. Dr. Chaplin, 
President of the College, says of liis talent, " In regard to the intel- 
lectual powers of your deceased brother, I do not hesitate to say, that 
they were of a superior order. He seems to me to have approached 
very near the rank of those distinguished men who have been honor- 
ed \nth the title of universal geniuses. Dming his collegiate course 
he appeared to have an almost equal adaptation of mind to the various 



70 ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 

branches of science and literature, usually studied at our seminaries of 
learning ; and, -what is more, he took hold of each vaih giant strength. 
It was my lot to hear lais class in Greek and in metaphysics, and I 
well remember that in both these departments of knowledge, he ap- 
peared to great advantage at the daily recitations, and also at the ex- 
amination of his class before the board of visitors. I tliink he was 
rather more fond of languages and polite Hterature, than of intellectu- 
al philosophy and the exact sciences. In the latter, however, he ac- 
quitted liimself in a highly creditable manner." 

During the fall of 1827, Mr. Lovejoy removed to the far 
West, and engaged in teaching at St. Louis. He remained at this 
place, and in the vicinity, emplojing liis time in teaching and editing 
a paper, for nearly five years, when, becoming converted, he removed 
to Princeton, N. J., where he entered upon a course of study in the 
Theological Seminary, to prepare liimself for the ministry ; and durmg 
the following year, was Hcensed to preach, by the Second Presbytery 
of Philadelphia. In the summer of 1833, he preached temporarily, at 
Newport, 11. 1., and in the Spring-street Church, New-York city. He 
soon after returned again to St. Louis, and commenced the publication 
of the ' St. Louis Observer,' a weekly journal devoted to Religion. 
He conducted this paper for nearly two years, when, OAving to the pub- 
lication of a severe editorial article on Slavery, a mob was created, 
who, during his absence from the city, threatened the destruction of 
the office, but were prevented by the proprietors, who, A\ith praise- 
worthy discretion, promised that no more such articles should appear 
ui its columns. Mr. Lovejoy, however, on his return, m reply to a 
petition from the people, refused to be controlled by pubUc sentiment, 
declaring his determination to defend the freedom of the press. The 
excitement not subsicUng, a meeting of the citizens was called, and 
resolutions passed, asking Mr. Lovejoy to refrain from publishing any 
thing upon slavery that would contmue the present, or raise another 
excitement. To these resolutions he repUed at great length, still 
maintaining his right to fi-ee expression of opinion. By pm-suing tliis 
determined course, he was obliged to remove from the city to escape 
the vengeance of the mob. 

Li Jmie 1836, he removed his press to Alton, 111., where it was 
destroyed soon after being landed. He procm-ed another one, and 
continued the publication of the ' Observer ; ' but had been establish- 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 71 

eel here only a short time, ■when suTiilar articles to those jjubHshed in 
St. Louis, created another mob, and a meeting was held by the citi- 
zens of Alton, who pm-sued a similar course to those of St. Louis, and 
with the same success. On ]Mr. Lovejoy's expressing his determina- 
tion to continue to write against slavery, the office of the ' Observer' 
was destrojed by the mob. Still undaunted, bj^ the assistance of his 
fi-iends, he purchased another press, which, like the first, was destroy- 
ed by a mob, before it was put up, and while defending it, Mr. Love- 
joy was fired at, and exclaiming, " Oh God, I am shot, I am shot," he 
expired mstantly. This sad event occurred during the night of the 
seventh of November, 1837. He was buried on liis thirty-fifth birth 
day, and left a wife and one little boy to mourn his tragic death. 
Meetings were called in all parts of the country, at which his murder- 
ers were strongly denounced, also by the leading jom-nals. 

We have been furnished with the follo^ralg account of meetings 
held at Belfast and Bangor : 

" In Belfast, a public meeting was held on the evening of Nov. 
30th, at which Hon. Alfi-ed Johnson, was Chairman, and B. P. Field, 
jr. Secretary. The following resolutions were reported, and after dis- 
cussion, were unanimously adopted : 

Be.wlved, That in pursuance of the public notice wliich called 
this meeting, we have assembled, not as men of any party, civil or re- 
ligious, but on the broad ground of American citizensliip, to ])ass res- 
olutions in regard to the topics specified, as truth and the good of our 
country may in our estimation demand. 

Resolved, That the Rev. E. P. Lovejoy, a highly respected citi- 
zen, recently of this State, who was on the 7th inst. assassinated by 
a mob, at Alton, in Illinois, in consequence of an attempt on his part 
to protect his property, Hberty and life, when no legal protection could 
be obtained — has fallen a martyr in defence of rights which are guar- 
anteed to every freeman by the Constitutions of the General and SUite 
Governments ; rights of which our country has made her liighest 
boast, and which are dear to every American citizen. 

At a special meeting of the Bangor * Anti-Slavery Society,' held 
Nov. 27th, 1837, the folio-wing preamble and resolution were adopted : 

Whereas, the late Rev. E. P. Lovejoy, of Alton, 111, was a native 
of this State, his aged and excellent mother and other members of 
the family being still resident in our >icinity, and well known to at 
least many of us — 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 



Resolved, That in our judgment, he was an intelligent, talented, 
upright, noble-hearted man ; a sincere and consistent Christian ; an 
able, independent, and faitlilul minister of the gospel ; a bold, uncom- 
promising enemj' of oppression in all its forms ; a self-sacrificing friend 
and defender of ci\-il and religious liberty, of truth and righteousness, 
■whose name and whose virtues deserve to be embalmed in the memory 
of every friend of God and man." 

A Mork, containing his life, letters, poems, and a liistory of the 
riots, Avas pubhshed by Iris brothers, in 1838, and from the mtroduction 
to it, written by the Hon. John Qmncy Adams, we make the following 
extract : — 

" That an American citizen, in a State whose Constitution rejju- 
diates all Slavery, should che a martj-r in defence of the freedom of the 
press, is a phenomenon in the history of tliis Union. It forms an era, 
in the progress of manldnd towards universal emancipation. Martyr- 
dom was said by Dr. Johnson, to be the only test of sincerity in re- 
ligious belief. It is also the ordeal through which all great improve- 
ments in the condition of men, are doomed to pass. The incidents 
which preceded and accompanied, and followed the catastrophe of Mr. 
Lovejoy's death, point it out as an epoch in the annals of human Ub- 
erty. They have given a shock as of an earthquake, throughout this 
continent, v.liich mil be felt in the most distant regions of the earth. 
They have inspired an mterest in the public mind, which extends al- 
ready to the life and character of the suflFerer, and which it is beheved 
will abide while ages pass aAvay. To record and preserve for posteri- 
ty, the most interesting occurrences of his Hfe, has been considered an 
obhgation of duty, specially incumbent upon the surnAdng members of 
his family, and in the effusions of liis omu mind, and the characteristic 
features of his tlimiUar corresjjondence, the reader will find the most 
effective portraitm-c of the first American ]\Iartyr to the freedom of 
the press, and the freedom of the slave." 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 73 



INSPIRATIONS OF THE MUSE. 

Who has not felt, when life's dull stream was low, 
When hope had fled, and pleasure waned to wo ; 
When all within was dreary, dark, and wild — 
On feeling's ruins sat despair, and smiled — 
And like the shadows by the moonbeams thrown 
On chilly waters, faint and cold it shone ; 
Who has not felt the melting charm that stole 
Like healing virtue o'er the stricken sovil. 
When some fair hand the trembling lyre had swept, 
And waked the Muse, that lingered there and slept ; 
Her magic charms, her tones so sweetly given. 
They tell like dreams which Gabriel brings from heaven, 
And, on the cold, cold regions of the breast, 
Come warm with life in visions of the blest. 
The frozen heart which never felt before, 
Dissolves in grief and smiles its mis'ry o'er, 
And as it weeps the obscuring clouds away, 
Hope gilds the tear with sunshine's softest ray ; 
Peace o'er the tempest throws its rainbow charms, 
Sure pledge of joy, yet timjd from alarms: 
The enchanting prospect opens wide and clear, 
When Beauty blushes where the loves appear ! 
who that has not proudly counted o'er 
Such hours enshrined in Mem'ry's choicest store. 
When, as the dream of life was flitting by, 
They flashed in Brightness on the suflf 'rer's eye ; 
7 



74 ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 

And left their marks transcribed upon his soul, 

Unsullied pages in life's gloomy scroll : 

Gently they spoke in silver notes of bliss, 

As if heav'n stooped to whisper words of peace. 

So can the Muse enchant the yielding heart, 

New hopes, new pleasures, and new joys impart; 

When meek and mild, she comes in tenderness. 

To sooth our sorrows, and our comforts bless, 

And smiles as love smiles o'er the bed of death. 

Or bends like hope to catch the parting breath ; 

But if, with all her gorgeous drap'ry on, 

She strikes the note that glory rides upon — 

With hues of grandeur deep around her thrown. 

And stately mien that Virtue's self might own — 

'Tis then she kindles in th' expanding soul 

Desires immortal, thoughts above control. 

She chants her death-song o'er the hero's grave, 

Each arm is mighty and each coward brave ; 

And when the untamed victor of the fight. 

Prepared to use the vengeance of his might. 

Witness, Euripides, and Homer, thou, 

How oft her strains have smoothed the angry brow ; 

Loosed from his hands the pris'ner's slavish chain, 

And bade the captive be a man again. 

She strikes the chords that round her heart entwine, 

And warm responses breathe on ev'ry line. 

The mind, awakened by the burning strain, 

Starts in a flight which seraphs scarce can gain : 

Bursts from its mortal shroud and soars away, 

And basks and revels in unclouded day ; 

Leaves earth's dull scenes with all its cares and woes, 

Mounts into light, and kindles as it goes ! 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 75 

Oh ! there are moments when the winged mind, 

Free and unshackled as the viewless wind, 

In full poetic pride goes gloriously 

With cherubim in concert up the sky ; 

Counts ev'ry planet as it rolls away 

In bold relief into eternity ! 

Joins the full choir which sings along the spheres, 

Among the star-crowned circles of the years ! 

In strains that e'en the Eternal stoops and hears ! 

Or vent'rous soars above the thrice-arched sky, 

And bends exulting through infinity. 

In that vast space where unknown sunbeams sleep, 

Or hidden stars their glorious night-watch keep ; 

Whose light still traveling since time first began, 

Through the immense, has never shone on man — 

In those far regions, where no baleful beam 

Shoots on the soul its dark and vap'ry gleam ; 

Where sinless angels play along the air. 

And hymn their loves, or bend in holy pray'r ; 

Here can the mind expatiate unrestrained 

O'er beauties such as fancy never feigned ; 

Or higher still, bow at th' Eternal shrine, 

Where seraphim with veiled faces shine ! 

Nay lift the curtain from before the throne, 

And gaze with wond'ring awe upon the Great Unknown ! 

So once in Eden's ground, that blissful scene, 

Where fear was not, for guilt had not yet been, 

Man sought the temple where his Maker trod, 

And fearless held communion with his God. 

Surely, if heav'nly wisdom e'er designed 

One peerless gift in mercy to mankind. 

One noble proof in the creative plan, 



76 ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 

Whicli stamps his high original on man ; 

'Tis that poetic fire which bids him rise, 

And claim his home, his kindred in the skies ; 

Which rides in safety o'er life's troublous storms, 

And smiles on death in all its untried forms. 

'Tis a mysterious ardor none can tell, 

And which but few of favored mortals feel ; 

An emanation from the Deity, 

That claims and proves its immortality ; 

A part of being subtle and refined. 

The pure and hallowed element of mind ; 

A flame which burns amidst the darkest gloom, 

Shines round the grave, and kindles in the tomb. 

When fainting nature trembles on her throne, 

And the last spirit to the heav'ns has flown ; 

In that dread hour, when hushed in deep repose, 

The prelude of Gre9.tiou'8 dying throes — 

The dead lie slumb'ring shrouded in their pall, 

And wait unconscious for the angel's call ; 

'Tis this shall sound the vivifying strain. 

And wake mortality to life again ; 

Shall snatch her harp, when circling flames arise, 

And soar and sing eternal in the skies ! 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 77 



THE FAREAYELL. 

Laxd of my birth ! my natal soil farewell : 

The winds and waves are bearing me away 

Fast from thy shores ; and I would offer thee 

This sincere tribute of a swelling heart. 

I love thee : witness that I do, my tears, 

Which gushingly do flow, and will not be restrained 

At thought of seeing thee, perchance no more. 

Yes, I do love thee ; though thy hills are bleak, 

And piercing cold thy winds ; though winter blasts 

Howl long and dreary o'er thee ; and thy skies 

Frown oftener than they smile ; though thine is not 

The rich profusion that adorns the year in sunnier climes ; 

Though spicy gales blow not in incense from thy groves : 

For thou hast that, far more than worth them all. 

Health sits upon thy rugged hills, and blooms in all thy vales ; 

Thy laws are just, oi if thy ever lean, 

'Tis to sweet mercy's side at pity's call. 

Thy sons are noble, in whose veins there runs 

A richer tide than Europe's kings can boast. 

The blood of freemen : blood which oft has flowed 

In freedom's holiest cause ; and heady yet to flow, 

If need should be, eee it would cuedle down 

To THE slow sluggish STREAM OF SLAVERY. 

Thy daughters too are fair, and beauty's mien 
Looks still the lovelier, graced with purity. 
For these I love thee ; and if these were all. 
Good reason were there, that thou shouldst be loved. 

7 



78 ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 

But other ties, and dearer far than all, 

Bind fast my heart to thee. 

Who can forget the scenes, in which the doubtful ray 

Of reason, first dawned o'er him ? Can memory e'er 

Forsake the home where friends, where parents dwell ? 

Close by the mansion where I first drew breath. 

There stands a tree, beneath whose branching shade 

I've sported oft in childhood's sunny hours ; — 

A lofty elm ; — I' ve carved my name thereon ; 

There let it grow, a still increasing proof, 

That time cannot eff"ace, nor distance dim 

The recollection of those halcyon days. 

IMy father too ; I' ve grieved his manly heart, 

Full many a time, by heedless waywardness ; 

While he was laboring with a parent's care, 

To feed and clothe his thoughtless, thankless boy. 

And I have trembled, as with frown severe 

He oft has checked me, when perhaps I meant 

To do him pleasure, with my childish mirth ; 

And thought how strange it was, he would not smile. 

But oh ! my mother ! she whose every look 

Was love and tenderness, that knew no check ; 

Who joyed Avith me ; whose fond maternal eye 

Grew dim, when pain or sorrow faded mine. 

But time is speeding ; and the billowy waves 

Are hurrying me away. Thy misty shores 

Grow dim in distance ; while yon setting sun 

Seems ling'ering fondly on them, as 'twould take 

Like me, a last adieu. I go to tread 

The western vales, whose gloomy cypress tree 

Shall haply soon be wreathed upon my bier : 

Land of my birth ! my natal soil, Farewell ! 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 79 



THE LITTLE STAR. 

I WOULD I were on yonder little star, 
That looks so modest in the silver sky, 
Removed in boundless space so very far. 
That scarce its rays can meet the gazer's eye, 
Yet there it hangs all lonely, bright and high. 

O could I mount where fancy leads the way. 
How soon woiild I look down upon the sun, 
Rest my tired wing upon his upward ray, 
And go where never yet his beams have shone, 
Light on that little star and make it all my own. 

Love dwells not with us, in some happier sphere, 

It makes its angel heaven to innocence so dear: 

There is beyond this sublunary ball, 

A land of souls, a heaven of peace and joy, 

Whose skies are always bright, whose pleasures never cloy. 

And if to souls released from earth 'tis given, 
To choose their home through bright infinity, 
Then yonder star shall be my happy heaven. 
And I will live unknown, for I would be 
The lonely hermit of Eternity. 



80 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 



THE WANDERER. 

The sun was set, and that dim twilight hour, 
Which shrouds in gloom whate'er it looks upon, 

Was o'er the world : stern desolation lay 
In her own ruins ; every mark was gone, 

Save one tall, beetling monumental stone. 

Amid a sandy Avaste it retired its head, 

All scathed and blackened by the lightning shock. 
That many a scar and many a seam had made. 

E'en to its base ; and there with thundering stroke, 
Erie's wild waves in ceaseless clamor broke. 

And on its rifted top the Avanderer stood, (/) 
And bared his head beneath the cold night air, 

And wistfully he gazed upon the flood : 

It Avere a boon to him, (so thought he there,) 

Beneath that tide to rest from every care. 



And might it be, and not his own rash hand 

Have done the deed, (for yet he dared not brave, 

All reckless as he was, the high command. 
Do thyself no harm,) adoAvn the wave 

And in the tall lake-grass that night had been his grave. 



ELIJAH P. LOVEJOY. 81 

Oh ! you may tell of that philosophy, • 

Which steels the heart 'gainst every bitter wo : 

'Tis not in nature, and it cannot be ; 

You cannot rend young hearts, and not a throe 

Of agony tell how they feel the blow. 

He was a lone and solitary one. 

With none to love, and pity he disdained : 

His hopes were wrecked, and all his joys were gone; 
But his dark eye blanched not ; his pride remained : 

And if he deeply felt, to none had he complained. 

Of all that knew him few but judged him Avrong : 

He was of silent and unsocial mood : 
Unloving and unloved he passed along : 

His chosen path with steadfast aim he trod, 
Nor asked nor wished applause, save only of his God. 

Oh ! how preposterous 'tis for man to claim 
In his own strength to chain the human soul ! 

Go, first, and learn the elements to tame, 
Ere you would exercise your vain control. 

O'er that which pants and strive for an immortal goal. 

Yet oft a young and generous heart has been 

By cruel keepers trampled on and torn ; 
And all the worst and wildest passions in 

The human breast have roused themselves in scorn, 
That else had dormant slept, or never had been born. 



ELIJAH P. LOYEJOY. 



Take heed ye guardians of tlie youttiful mind, 
That facile grows beneath your kindly care : 

'Tis of elastic mould, and, if confined 

With too much stress ' shoots madly from its sphere,' 

Unswayed by love, and unrestrained by fear, 

Oh ! tis a fearful Hasting sight to see 

The soul in ruins, withered, rived, and wrung. 

And doonjed to spend its immortality 

Darkling and hopeless, where despair has flung 

Her curtains o'er the loves to which it fondly clung. 

So thought the wanderer: so, perhaps, he felt: 
(But this is unrevealed :) now had he come 

To the far woods, and there in silence knelt 
On the sharp flint-stone in the rayless gloom, 

And fervently he prayed to find an early tomb. 

Weep not for him : he asks no sympathy 
Fi'om human hearts and eyes ; aloof, alone, 

On his own spirit let him rest, and be 
By all his kind forgotten and unknown, 

And wild winds mingle with his dying groan. 

And in the desert let him lie and sleep. 
In that sweet rest exhausted nature gave : 

Oh ! make his clay-cold mansion dark and deep, 
While the tall trees their sombre foliage wave, 

And drop it blighted on the wanderer's grave. 



THE AMARANTH. 

Thou art not of earth, thou beautiful thmg;, 
With thy changeless form and hue — 

For thou in thy heart hast ever borne 
A drop of that living dew 

That nourished thee, when earth was young, 

And the music of Eden around thee rung. 

Thou art not of earth : no change is thine — 

No touch of death or decay; 
And the airs that fanned thee in Paradise, 

Seem over thy leaves to play ; 
Aud they whisper still of fadeless bowers. 
Where never shall wither the blooming flowers. 

Thou art not of earth : thou changest not 

When the wintry blast is nigh, 
Though thy scatter'd leaves are wildly toss'd 

On the wind as it rushes by; 
For even then, in that hour of dread, 
Kot a hue of beauty hath left the dead. 

I deem that Eve, when in terror forced 

From her Eden home to part, 
Must have sadly look'd on those fadeless bowers. 

And clasped thee to her heart — 
And thou in thy exile still dost tell 
Of a changeless home where the good shall dwell. 



ELIZABETH OAKES SMITH. 

AGE, 47 YEAKS. 

Miss Elizabeth Oakes Pres'CE, now Mrs. Smith, if we can rely 
uiDon the most definite information obtained, (g) was born in the city 
of Portland, in the year 1807. Her first poem of any length, was 
pubUshed m 1842, mider the title of 'The Sinless Child,' and con- 
tains some of the most beautiful passages in the EngUsh language. 
When about sixteen years of age, she became engaged to, and soon 
after married Seba Smith, Esq., a lawyer, now m practice m the city 
of New-York, but who was then resicUng in Portland. She has pub- 
lished several volimies of prose and poetry, some of which are upon 
the Duties of Woman, and now has a volume in press, that is said 
to be a journal of her OAvn thoughts and feelings, rather than a work 
of fiction, although issued as such. 

Mrs. Smith is an able advocate, and lectures upon the progres- 
sive side of Woman's Rights. She has talent of the highest order, 
and -will yet attain a more extended popularity by her essays and lec- 
tiu-es, which abound vdth deep thought and strong and sound argu- 
ments. She has been a pioneer in a new field for female talent, and 
one that bids fair to be filled ^\iih able and eloquent laborers. Mrs. 
Smith possesses a highly cultivated and enlarged mind, and is as well 
versed m the English language as any female writer of our comitry. 
As a poetess she occupies a position in the front rank among the most 
gifted male and female poets of America. In her poetry, ' She de- 
sires to teach a philosophy of the whole nature of man, in which the 



86 ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 

imagination and the affections should predominate, and by wliich the 
relation of man and the external universe to each other and to God 
might be displayed 

' In words that move iu metrical array.' 

She hopes to soothe and harmonize the soul, by opening to it unex- 
plored regions of loveHness and delight ; by accustoming it to the 
contemplation of the majesty of the universe,' 

E. P. Whipple, one of the ablest reviewers m this covmtry, pays 
the following merited compUment to the poetical genius of Mrs. 
Smith, in an article upon the ' Poets and Poetry of America,' which 
appeared in the 'North American Review,' in 1844. 

' Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, of New-York, has Avritten a number of 
short poems of much beauty, purity, and sphituality. ' The Sinless 
Child,' and ' The Acorn,' manifest qualities of the mind and heart, 
which are worthy of a more thorough development. They display 
much depth of feehng and affluence of fancy, and are singularly pure 
and sweet in their tone. ' The Sinless Child,' though deficient in ar- 
tistical finish, contams many passages of a high order of poetry, and 
is stainless as its subject. It gives cAadence, also, of a capacity for a 
more extended sweep over the domain of thought and emotion. Mrs. 
Smith is not merely a smooth and skilful versifier, mdulging occasion- 
ally in a flii-tation with poetry, to while away the time, but one whose 
prodiTCtions are true exponents of her iuAvard life, and display the 
freshness and fervor which come from indinduahty of character and 
feeUng. She speaks of what she knows and of what she has felt. 
Her theory of morals does not seem to have come into her soul 
through the inlet of her ear. Her truthfuhiess is a promment char- 
acteristic of her genius.' 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 87 



THE ACORN. 

An acorn fell from an old oak tree, 

And lay on the frosty ground — 
' 0, what shall the fate of the acorn be ? ' 

Was whisper'd all around, 
By low-toned voices, chiming sweet, 

Like floweret's bell when swung — 
And grasshopper steeds were gathering fleet, 

And the beetle's hoofs up-rung — 

For the woodland Fays came sweeping past 

In the pale autumnal ray, 
Where the forest leaves were falling fast, 

And the acorn quivering lay ; 
They came to tell what its fate should be. 

Though life was unreveal'd ; 
For life is holy mystery. 

Where'er it is conceal'd 

They came with griefs that should life bestow : 

The dew and the living air — 
The bane that should work its deadly woe — 

Was found with the Fairies there. 
In the gray moss-cup was the mildew brought. 

And a worm in the rose-leaf roll'd. 
And many things with destruction fraught, 

That its fate were quickly told. 



But it needed not : for a blessed fate 

Was the acorn's doom'd to be — 
The spirits of earth should its birth- time wait, 

And watch o'er its destiny. 
To a little sprite was the task assign'd, 

To bury the acorn deep, 
Away from the frost and searching wind, 

When they through the forest sweep. 

I laugh'd outright at the small thing's toil. 
As he bow'd beneath the spade. 

And he balanced his gossamer wings the while 
To look in the pit he made. 

A thimble's depth it was scarcely deep, 
When the spade aside he threw, 

And roll'd the acorn away to sleep 
In the hush of dropping dew. 

The spring-time came with its fresh, warm air, 

And its gush of woodland song ; 
The dew came down, and the rain was there, 

And the sunshine rested long : 
Then softly the black earth turn'd aside, 

The old leaf arching o'er, 
And up, where the last year's leaf was dried, 

Came the acorn-shell once more. 



With coiled stem, and a pale green hue, 
It look'd but a feeble thing ; 

Then deeply its roots abroad it threw. 
Its strength from the earth to bringr. 



ELIZABETH 0. SMITH. 89 

The woodland spirits are gathering round, 

Rejoiced that the task is done — 
That another life from the noisome ground 

Is up to the pleasant sun. 

The young child pass'd with a careless tread, 

And the germ had well-nigh crush' d ; 
But a spider, launch'd on her airy thread, 

The cheek of the stripling brush'd. 
He little knew, as he started back, 

How the acorn's fate was hung 
On the very point in the spider's track 

Where the web on his cheek was flung. 

The autumn came, and it stood alone, 

And bow'd as the wind pass'd by — 
The wind that utter'd its dirge-like moan 

In the old oak sear and dry ; 
And the hollow branches creak'd and sway'd, 

But they bent not to the blast, 
For the stout oak tree where centuries play'd, 

Was sturdy to the last. 

A school boy beheld the lithe young shoot, 

And his knife was instant out, 
To sever the stalk from the spreading root, 

And scatter the buds about ; 
To peel the bark in curious rings. 

And many a notch and ray, 
To beat the air till it whizzing rings, 

Then idly cast away. 



90 



ELIZABETH 0. SMITH. 



His hand was stay'd ; he knew not why : 

'Twas a presence breath'd around — 
A pleading from the deep-blue sky, 

And up from the teeming ground. 
It told of the care that lavish' d had been 

In sunshine and in dew — 
Of the many things that had wrought a screen 

"When peril around it grew. 

It told of the oak that once had bow'd, 

As feeble a thing to see ; 
But now, when the storm was raging loud. 

It wrestled mightily. 
There's a deeper thought on the schoolboy's brow, 

A new love at his heart ; 
And he ponders much, as with footsteps slow 

He turns him to depart. 

Up grew the twig, with a vigor bold, 

In the shade of the parent tree, 
And the old oak knew that his doom was told, 

When the sapling sprang so free. 
Then the fierce winds came, and they raging tore 

The hollow limbs away ; 
And the damp moss crept from the earthly floor 

Around the trunk, time-worn and gray. 



The young oak grew, and proudly grew, 
For its roots were deep and strong ; 

And a shadow broad on the earth it threw, 
And the sunlight linger' d long 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 91 



On its glossy leaf, where the flickering light 

Was flung to the evening sky ; 
And the wild bird came to its airy height, 

And taught her young to fly. 

In acorn time came the truant boy, 

With a wild and eager look, 
And he mark'd the tree with a wondering joy, 

As the wind the great limbs shook. 
He look'd where the moss on the north side grew, 

The gnarled arms outspread, 
The solemn shadow the huge tree threw, 

As it tower'd above his head ; 

And vague-like feai's the boy surround, 

In the shadow of that tree ; 
So growing up from the darksome ground, 

Like a giant mystery. 
His heart beats quick to the squirrel's tread 

On the wither' d leaf and drj'', 
And he lifts not up his awe-struck head 

As the eddying wind sweeps by. 

And regally the stout oak stood. 

In its vigor and its pride ; 
A monarch own'd in the solemn wood. 

With a sceptre spreading wide — 
No more in the wintry blast to bow. 

Or rock in the summer breeze ; 
But draped in green, or star-like snow, 

Reign king; of the forest trees. 



92 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 



And a thousand years it firmly grew, 

And a thousand blasts defied ; 
And, mighty in strength, its broad arms threw 

A shadow dense and wide. 
It grew where the rocks were bursting out 

From the thin and' heaving soil — 
Where the ocean's roar, and the sailor's shout, 

Were mingled in wild turmoil — 

Where the far-off" sound of the restless deep 

Came up with a booming swell ; 
And the white foam dash'd to the rocky steep, 

But it loved the tumult well. 
Then its huge limbs creaked in the midnight air. 

And join'd in the rude uproar ; 
For it loved the storm and the lightning's glare 

And the sound of the breaker's roar. 

The bleaching bones of the sea-bird's prey 

Were heap'd on the rocks below ; 
And the bald-head eagle, fierce and gray, 

Look'd off from its topmost bough. 
Where its shadow lay on the quiet wave 

The light-boat often swung, 
And the stout ship, saved from the ocean grave, 

Her cable round it flung:. 



Change came to the mighty things of earth 

Old empires pass'd away ; 
Of the generations that had birth, 

O Death ! where, where were they ? 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 93 

Yet fresh, and green the brave oak stood, 

Nor dream'd it of decay, 
Though a thousand times in the autumn wood 

Its leaves on the pale earth lay. 

A sound comes down in the forest trees, 

And echoing from the hill ; 
It floats far off on the summer breeze, 

And the shore resounds it shrill. 
Lo ! the monarch tree no more shall stand 

Like a watch-tower of the main — 
■^he strokes fall thick from the woodman's hand 

And its falling shakes the plain. 

The stout live oak ! — 'twas a worthy tree, 

And the builder mark'd it out ; 
And he smiled its angled limbs to see, 

As he measured the trunk about. 
Already to him was a gallant bark 

Careering the rolling deep, 
And in sunshine, calm, or tempest dark, 

Her way she will proudly keep. 

The chisel clicks, and the hammer rings. 

And the merry jest goes round ; 
While he who longest and loudest sings 

Is the stoutest workman found. 
With jointed rib, and trunnel'd plank 

The work goes gayly on. 
And light-spoke oaths, when the glass they drank, 

Are heard till the task is done. 



94 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 



She sits on the rocks, the skeleton ship, 

With her oaken ribs all bare, 
And the child looks up with parted lip, 

As it gathers fuel there — 
With brimless hat, the barefoot boy 

Looks round with strange amaze, 
And dreams of a sailor's life of joy 

Are mingling in that gaze. 

With graceful waist and carvings brave 

The trim hull waits the sea — 
And proudly stoops to the crested wave, 

While round go the cheerings three. 
Her prow swells up from the yeasty deep, 

Where it plung'd in foam and spray : 
And the glad waves gathering round her sweep 

And buoy her in their play. 

Thou wert nobly rear'd, O heart of oak ! 

In the sound of the ocean roar, 
Where the surging wave o'er the rough rock broke, 

And bellow'd along the shore — 
And how wilt thou in the storm rejoice, 

With the wind through spar and shroud. 
To hear a sound like the forest voice, 

AVhen the blast was raging loud ! 



With snow-white sail, and streamer gay. 
She sits like an ocean-sprite. 

Careering on in her trackless way, 
In sunshine or dark midnight ; 



ELIZABETH O SMITH. 95 

Her course is laid with fearless skill, 

For brave hearts man the helm ; 
And joyous winds her canvas fill — 

Shall the wave the stout ship whelm ? 

On, on she goes, where the icebergs roll 

Like floating cities by ; 
Where meteors flash by the northern pole, 

And the merry dancers fly ; 
"Where the glittering light is backward flung 

From icy tower and dome, 
And the frozen shrouds are gayly hung 

With gems from the ocean foam. 

On the Indian sea was her shadow cast, 

As it lay like molten gold, 
And her pendant shroud and towering mast 

Seem'd twice on the waters told. 
The idle canvas slowly swung 

As the spicy breeze went by, 
And strange, rare music around her rung 

From the jDalm tree growing nigh. 

O, gallant ship, thou didst bear Avith thee 

The gay and the breaking heart. 
And weeping eyes look'd out to see 

Thy white-spread sails depart. 
And when the rattling casement told 

Of many a perill'd ship, 
The anxious wife her babes would fold, 

And pray with trembling lip. 



96 ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 

The petrel wheerd in its stormy flight ; 

The wind piped shrill and high ; 
On the topmast sat a pale blue light, 

That flicker'd not to the eye : 
The black cloud came like a banner down, 

And down came the shrieking blast ; 
The quivering ship on her beam is thrown, 

And gene are helm and mast. 

Helmless, but on before the gale, 

She ploughs the deep-trough' d wave : 
A gurgling sound — a frenzied wail — 

And the ship has found a grave. 
And thus is the fate of the acorn told, 

That fell from the old oak tree, 
And the woodlawn Fays in the frosty mould 

Preserved for its destiny. 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 



97 



THE DROWNED MARINER. 

A Makinek sat on the shrouds one night, 

The wind was piping free ; 
Now hright, now dimm'd was the moonlight pale, 
And the phosphor gleam'd in the wake of the whale, 

As it flounder'd in the sea ; 
The scud was flying athwait the sky, 
The gathering winds went whistling by, 
And the wave, as it tower'd, then fell in spray, 
Look'd an emerald wall in the moonlight ray. 

The mariner sway'd and rock'd on the mast. 

But the tumult pleased him well : 
Down the yawning wave his eye he cast, 
And the monsters watch'd as they hurried past. 

Or lightly rose and fell, — 
For their broad, damp fins were under the tide, 
Awd they lash'd as they pass'd the vessel's side. 
And their filmy eyes, all huge and grim. 
Glared fiercely up, and they glared at him. 

Now freshens the gale, and the brave ship goes 

Like an uncurb'd steed along ; 
A sheet of flame is the spray she throws. 
As her gallant bow the water ploughs. 

But the ship is fleet and strong ; 
The topsail is reef 'd, and the sails are furl'd, 
And onward she sweeps o'er the watery world, 
And dippeth her spars in the surging flood ; 
But there cometh no chill to the mariner's blood. 
9 



98 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 



Wildly she rocks, but he swingeth at ease, 

And holdeth by the shroud ; 
And as she careens to the crowding breeze, 
The gaping deep the mariner sees, 

And the surging heareth loud. 
Was that a face, looking \ip to him. 
With its pallid cheek, and its cold eyes dim ? 
Did it beckon him down ? Did it call his name ? 
Now rolleth the ship in the way whence it came. 

The mariner look'd, and he saw, with dread, 

A face he knew too well ; 
And the cold eyes glared, the eyes of the dead, 
And its' long hair out on the wave was spread, — 

Was there a tale to tell ? 
The stout ship rock'd with a reeling speed, 
And the mariner groan'd, as well he need — 
For ever down, as she plunged on her side, 
The dead face gleam' d, from the briny tide. 



Bethink thee, mariner, well of the past : 

A voice calls loud for thee : 
There's a stifled prayer, the first, the last ; 
The plunging ship on her beam is cast — 

O, where shall thy burial be ? 
Bethink thee of oath's that were lightly spoken ; 
Bethink thee of vows that were lightly broken ; 
Bethink thee of all that was dear to thee, 
For thou art alone on the raging sea ; 



ELIZABETH 0. SMITH. 99 



Alone in the dark, alone on the wave, 

To buffet the storm alone ; 
To struggle aghast at thy watery grave, 
To struggle and feel there is none to save ! 

God shield thee, helpless one ! 
The stout limbs yield, for their strength is past ; 
The trembling hands on the deep are cast ; 
The white brow gleams a moment more. 
Then slowly sinks, — the struggle is o'er. 

Down, down where the storm is lash'd to sleep, 

Where the sea its dirge shall swell ; 
Where the amber drops for thee shall weep. 
And the rose-lipp'd shell its music keep; 

There thou shalt slumber well. 
The gem and the pearl lie heap'd at thy side ; 
They fell from the neck of the beautiful bride, 
From the strong man's hand, from the maiden's brow, 
As they slowly sunk to the caves below. 

A peopled home is the ocean-bed; 

The mother and child are there : 
The fervent youth and the hoary head, 
The maid, with her floating locks outspread, 

The babe, with its silken hair : 
As the water moveth, they slightly sway. 
And the tranquil lights on their features play : 
And there is each cherish'd and beautiful form. 
Away from decay, and away from the storm. 



LofC. 



1100 



ELIZABETH O. SMITH. 



PROGRESSION. 

Hope on, hope on, 0, restless heart ! 

Though dark the hour may he — 
For e'en in all thy struggles know 

A glory waits for thee ! 
O keep then still the dew of youth — 
Still hold thou fast unto the truth. 

What though the strong desires sent forth 

Unequal ends attain — 
And thy intensest thought result, 

That all of earth is vain — 
O, not in vain, if truth and right 
But arm thee with heroic might. 

Toil on, for like the pillar'd stone 
O'er which the moss has crept, 

And veiled the record there inscribed 
While ages round it slept — 

Thus, thou mayest on thy tablet read 

A truth to meet thine utmost need ; 

Hast thou, in this unequal strife, 

But tendest to a goal. 
Whose object realized shall fill 

The vastness of the soul — 
These ardent hopes — these Avishes high 
Belong to that which cannot die. 



MOUNT WASHINGTON. 



Mount of the clouds, on whose Olympian height 

The tall rocks brighten in the ether air, 

And spirits Irom the skies come down at night, 

To chant immortal songs to Freedom there! 

Thine is the rock of other regions, where 

The world of life which blooms so far below, 

Sweeps a wide waste; no gladdening scenes appear, 

Save where, with silvery flash the waters flow 

Beneath the far-off mountain, distant, calm, and slow. 

Thine is the summit where the clouds repose, 
Or, eddying wildly, round thy cliffs are borne ; 
When Temptest mounts his rushing car, and throws 
His billowy mist amid the thunder's home! 
Far down the deep ravine the whirlwinds come, 
And bow the forests as they sweep along ; 
While, roaring deeply from tlieir rocky womb, 
The storms come forth, and hurrying darkly on, 
Amid the echoing peaks the revelry prolong! 

And when the tumult of the air is fled, 
And quench'd in silence all tempest flame, 
There come the dim forms of the mighty dead, 
Around the steep that bears the hero's name! 
The stars look down upon them; and the same 
Pale orb that glistens o'er his distant grave 
Gleams on the summit that enshrines his fame. 
And lights the cold tear of the glorious brave. 
The richest, purest tear that memory ever gave ! 

Mount of the clouds! when winter round thee throws 

The hoary mantle of the dying year. 

Sublime amid thy canoj)y of snows. 

Thy towers in bright magnilicence appear! 

' Tis then we view thee with a chilling fear, 

Till summer robes thee in her tints of blue; 

When, lo! in soften'd grandeur, far, yet clear. 

Thy battlements stand clothed in harmonious hue, 

To swell as Freedom's home on man's unclouded view. 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. 

DIED, AGED 43 YEAKS. 

Grenville Mellex was bom in the tomi of Bidcleforcl, on the 
nmeteenth day of June, 1799, and was a son of the late Prentiss 
Mellen, Chief Justice of Maine. He was educated at Harvard Uni- 
versity, and read law with liis father, who then resided in Portland. 
A few months after liis admission to the bar, he married a very accom- 
plished yomig lady, and located himself at North- Yarmouth, in the 
practice of his profession. Dr. Griswold (h) says, " Within three 
years — in October 1828 — his wife to whom he was devotedly attached, 
died, and his only child followed her to the grave, in the succeeding 
spring. From tliis time his character was changed. He had before 
been an ambitious and a happy man. The remainder of his life was 
clouded with melancholy." Mr. Mellen's first articles were contributed 
to the United States Literary Gazette, published at Cambridge, Mass. 
His fu-st work, " Our Cln-onicle of Twenty-Six" — a satu-e, was pub- 
lished in 1827 ; " Glad Tales and Sad Tales," prose sketches, in 1839 ; 
" The Martyr's Triumph, and Other Poems," in 1834. This volume 
contained " Buried Valley," "The Rest of Emph-es," and all of his 
poems pre^aously published in the Magazines. In 1839, he establish- 
ed his " Monthly Miscellany," Avliich was short lived, on account of 
his failing health, and its unprofitableness. He contributed a great 
deal to the various leading Magazines, and also edited several Avorks. 
During the follomng summer, he visited the Island of Cuba, in 
hopes that the sea air and change of climate might tend to his recov- 
ery, but, with no perceptible improvement, he returned to New-York 
where he died on the fifth day of September, 1841. 



104 



GKENVILLE MELLEN. 



Man seldom loves more deeply and devotedly the object of his 
choice, than did INIr. Mellen his young and affectionate ■^^ife, and fi-om 
the hour that -witnessed the passing of her gentle sphit up to the 
world of samts, his life was melancholy and full of sorrow 

" For the early loved and lost." 

He felt that when his little child went home to its mother's bosom, in 
her bright abode, that every joy — every hope and ambition of his life 
was aimless, and could bring no joy or happiness to his deserted home, 
and two angel forms seemed ever around him, beckoiung liim up to 
their celestial home. Like the gifted and gentle hearted Willis 
Gaylord Clark, he sighed himself away in tears, to the bosom of 
his beloved, m a brighter home on liigh, where sorrow, death, and 
parting are never knowi. By liis death, om- State lost one of her most 
gifted sons, and one who would, had his health and family been 
spared him, have attained a very exalted position in the Hterature of 
our coimtry, and would have left a fame, when djing, that we should 
have been doubly proud of. Pro^idence, with its usual wisdom and 
kindness, ordered it otherwise, and he departed from among us ere 
he had fulfilled his mission and attained the height of his ambition. 
The poet says, truly, 

" Death loves a shining mark," 

for among those of om* native Poets who have been stricken doAra in 
the prime of life, and the sprmg-time of their fame, by his bUghtmg 
breath, the names of the most gifted, the most loved and respected, 
are recorded. They have not, however, gone from us without lea\ing 
something to tell those who succeed them, that they once hved, and 
toiled, and died. Om- State may well mourn the death of such gifted 
sons, as GreuA-ille and Frederic Mellen, Thatcher, Lamb. *Lovejoy, 
Prentiss, and their associates, who are now sleeping their sleep of 
death, but not unremembered, and though 

" We rear to them no temples proud, 
Each hath his mental pyramid." 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. 105 



MOUNT VERNON. 

WRITTEX DURING A VISIT TO THE HOME OF WASHrNGTON. 

O, Time ! whose wing untiring sweeps the world ! 
Still sounding onward in that stayless flight — 
Unseen, yet mightily, as when first unfurl'd 
In the young morning of creation's light — 
How hast thou shaken from thy pinion here, 
Over the work of man thy storm of change ! 
Where a whole people bends in prayer and tear, 
O'er mem'ries beyond words — so deep ! — so strange ! 
Where, as around some hallow'd altar-place, 
We gather, to call back the glory of our days ! 

Years, ye are reckless, as in pomp ye pass, 
With your dim company of Death and Wo — 
Bowing a generation as the grass, 
Whose ranks scarce blossom ere they meet the blow 
That levels them to earth ! — How stern ye tread 
On your long pilgrimage to that far land, 
Where ye, in turn, bow with the shadowy dead — 
Of things that joy us not the voiceless band ! 
Yet as ye pass, how mark'd your footsteps fall 
On all that circles us — from cradle to the pall ! 



106 GRENVILLE MELLEN. 

The hovel and the palace — the loud hall, 
Where wealth holds holiday, in feast and song ; 
And the gray cloister, with its echoes — all 
Sound to thy pinions, as they swoop along. 
Insatiate Time ! — -Alike on mount and vale. 
On the low cottage, and the cloudy tower. 
Is written still the melancholy tale, 
Of thy unfaltering progress, and thy power ! 
That power that owns not mercy or appeal — 
Stamping mortality with its eraseless seal. 

And here, where, hadst thou felt one thovight of earth. 
Thy footsteps had fall'n lightly — and thy hand 
Had lain with holier touch than marks the mirth 
With which it scars the pride of every land — 
Here, where — as round arches of some fane 
Virtue has made immortal — dull decay 
Has struggled yet with memory in vain, 
While lesser things of earth have pass'd away — 
Here, as o'er temples of some heathen sky. 
Hast thou "cast wide the shadow of thy revelry ! 

Ruin is writcen on these sacred walls ! 
It sounds with every foot-fall — and its tone, 
Like melancholy music, through these halls 
Echoes to every whisper — low — and lone ! 
The voice of other years uplifts around — 
And to our pilgrim spirit, as we tread. 
It comes like some remembcr'd dream of sound 
From the unfathom'd mansions of the dead ! 
Ruin ! — no other accent meets the ear ! 
Time ! frown no more on earth — thy empirage is here ! 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. 107 

But tliou rememb'rest while a world forgets — 
Thy seal is stamp'd upon the hallow'd place, 
Whore, though a light is round that never sets, 
And memory lingers, measur'd by no days, 
With Fkeedom's children — hearts that cannot die I — 
Yet does a people from its Capitol 
Look Avith unstartled pulse on that decay ! 
Hear the unheeded fragments as they fall, 
Nor ask what glory there may be to save 
The shrine to which it bows, from darkness and the grave ! 

Great Father of thy country ! — if 'tis given, 
Over its picture with an angel's eye 
To gaze from the broad watch-towers of thy heaven — 
How shall these black'ning lines of apathy 
Strike on thy vision ! — Shall ingratitude 
To one whose life a people did redeem, 
First strike thy spirit? — While o'er wrongs they brood, 
Like hoarding misers o'er some golden dream, 
Sparing that noble j ustice, which no shame 
Can summon to obey — and give the land to Fame ? 

O look not — look not from thy throne of stars 
Upon thy purchas'd world ! — so bravely won ! 
There is a shadow that its radiance mars — 
Deeper than the eclipse that drowns the sun ! 
Look not upon thy country ! — she has bow'd 
From that great pinnacle of glory down, 
Where thou didst place her. — and a voice aloud 
Proclaims her loftier pride and beauty flown — 
Look not upon thy country ! until she 
Recalls, with kindling thought, her Destiny and Thee ! 



108 GREN\1LLE MELLEN. 

I stood upon the threshold of that home 
Where he was gathered to his dreamless sleep ! 
Above me rose no tower or sculptur'd dome, 
But a strange quietness that makes you weep, 
Was round me like an atmosphere. I heard 
That mocking of my footsteps through the hall, 
And faint returnings of each whisper'd word, 
Which on the listener like a trump will fall, 
Though humble be the home and hearth he tread. 
O'er which the desolating wings of Time have sped ! 

I stood upon that threshold. The far voice 
Of the low, chanting winds was in my ear. 
And my heart leaped within me, as with joys, 
When I bethought me of past glories here — 
And scem'd to read its story in that sound. 
As syllabled by beings of the air, 
Who swept unseen on silent wings around, 
And held their ceaseless court of memory there ! 
Spirits that sentinel' d that quiet mount. 
And linger'd as about some lone and magic fount. 

And who were they — the band that cluster'd here 
The pilgrim pathway to that lonely grave — 
With eyes illum'd by recollection's tear. 
As the past swept their spirits like a wave ? 
W^ho, that with quivering lip, as if in prayer, 
And lifted brow, stood at that iron gate. 
Within which, over spoils of glory rare. 
Death, in his wonted home of victory sate — 
The tomb of a world's Father — where the son 
And daughter age shall bow — from the broad land he won ! 



GREN\1LLE MELLEN. 109 

They were the children of that favor'd land, 
Bending above the ashes of its Sire I 
Beaut)% with marble cheek and snowy hand, 
Trembling as 'mid the music of its lyre, 
When pointing to those relics of decay 
That round her shrinking feet oft fell and rung, 
As she pursued her melancholy way, 
Where memory murmur'd with her ceaseless tongue. 
Like the low forest music of the trees — 
Or the great harmony that dies not, of the seas ! 

Woman, who 'neath that moukPring archway bow'd, 
And the dank dust with cautious step did press — 
Where death's memorials did about her crowd — 
Chilling decay enshrin'd with loveliness ! 
Woman ! — and at her side a gentle youth. 
With dark eye and low voice, like one who feels 
The stirring revelation of great truth. 
That, at such shrines, through the hush'd spirit steals — 
And near, like a lost wand'rer 'mid the veil 
Of other years, lean'd the sad bard that tells this tale. 

And well they bow'd them at that holy place I 
O long, with generations yet untold. 
Shall here be held one Sabbath of their days 
By men whom nought had tempted from their gold, 
And the world's pleasures. Here, in bands, shall fall 
The father and his children — as at first — 
Till the worm revels 'mid the capitol, 
And dome and pillar fellow with the dust — 
Till the faint echo peal along the shore 
Where her veil'd sun went down — Trust Liberty no more! 
10 



no 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. 



THE TRUE GLORY OF AMERICA. 



Italia's vales and fountains, 

Though, beautiful ye be, 
I love my soaring mountains 

And forests more than ye ; 
And though a dreamy greatness rise 

From out your cloudy years, 
Like hills on distant stormy skies. 

Seem dim through Nature's tears, 
Still, tell me not of years of old, 

Of ancient heart and clime ; 
Ours is the land and age of gold, 

And ours the hallow'd time ! 



The je weird crown and sceptre 

Of Greece have pass'd away ; 
And none, of all who wept her. 

Could bid her splendor stay. 
The world has shaken with the tread 

Of iron-sandall'd crime — 
And, lo ! o'ershadowing all the dead, 

The conqueror stalks sublime ! 
Then ask I not for crown and plume 

To nod above my land ; 
The victor's footsteps point to doom, 

Graves open round his hand ! » 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. Ill 

Rome ! with thy pillar'd palaces, 

And sculptured heroes all, 
Snatch'd, in their warm, triumphal days. 

To Art's high festival ; 
Rome ! with thy giant sons of power. 

Whose pathway was on thrones, 
"Who built their kingdoms of an hour 

On yet unburied bones, — 
I would not have my land like thee, 

So lofty — yet so cold ! 
Be hers a lowlier majesty, 

In yet a nobler mould. 

Thy marbles — works of wonder ! 

In thy victorious days. 
Whose lips did seem to sunder 

Before the astonish'd gaze ; 
When statute glared on statute there. 

The living on the dead, — 
And men as silent pilgrims were 

Before some sainted head ! 
O, not for faultless marbles yet 

Would I the light forego 
That beams when other lights have set, 

And Art herself lies low. 

0, ours a holier hope shall be 

Than consecrated bust. 
Some loftier mean of memory 

To snatch us from the dust. 



112 



G RENVILLE MELLEN. 



And ours a sterner art than this. 

Shall fix ovir image here, — 
The spirit's mould of loveliness — 

A noble Belvideke! 

Then let them bind with bloomless flowers 

The busts and urns of old, — 
A fairer heritage be ours, 

A sacrifice less cold ! 
Give honor to the great and good, 

And wreathe the living brow, 
Kindling with Virtue's mantling blood, 

And pay the tribute now ! 



So, when the good and great go down, 

Their statues shall arise, 
To crowd those temples of our own, 

Our fadeless memories ! 
And when the sculptured marble falls. 

And Art goes in to die, 
Our forms shall live in holier halls, 

The Pantheon of the sky ! 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. lit 



THE BUGLE. 

O ! wii-D, enchanting horn ! 
"Whose music up the deep and dewy air 
Swells to the clouds, and calls on Echo there, 
Till a new melody is born — 

Wake, wake again, the night 
Is bending from her throne of beauty down. 
With still stars burning on her azure crown, 

Intense and eloquently bright. 

Night, at its pulseless noon ! 
When the far voice of waters mourns in song. 
And some tired watch-dog, lazily and long 

Barks at the melancholy moon. 

Hark ! how it sweeps away, (i) 
Soaring and dying on the silent sky, 
As if some sprite of sound went wandering by, 

With lone holloo and roundelay ! 

Swell, swell in glory out ! 
Thy tones come pouring on my leaping heart, 
And my stirr'd spirit hears thee with a start 

As bo) hood's old remember'd shout. 
10* 



114 



GRENVILLE MELLEN. 



O ! have ye heard that peal, 
From sleeping city's moon-bathed battlements, 
Or from the guarded field and warrior tents, 

Like some near breath around you steal ? 

Or have ye in the roar 
Of sea, or storm, or battle, heard it rise. 
Shriller than eagle's clamor, to the skies, 

Where wings and tempests never war ? 



Go, go — no other sound. 
No music that of air or earth is born, 
Can match the mighty music of that horn, 

On midnight's fathomless profound ! 



AN EVENING SCENE 



SUGGESTED BY A PICTURE BY WASHINGTON ALLSTON. 



The tender twilight with a crimson cheek 

Leans on the breast of Eve. The wayward wind 

Hath folded her fleet pinions, and gone down 

To slumber by the darken'd woods —the herds 

Have left their pastures, where the sward grows green 

And lofty by the river's sedgy brink, 

And slow are windmg home. Hark, from afar 

Their tinkling bells sound through the dusky glade 

And forest openings, with a pleasant sound ; 

While answering Echo, fcom the distant "hill 

Sends back the music of the herdsman's horn. 

How tenderly the trembling light yet plays 

O'er the far-waving foliage! Day's last blush 

Still lingers on the billowy waste of leaves, 

With a strange beauty— like the golden flush 

That haunts the ocean, when the day goes by. 

Methinks, whene'er earth's wearying troubles pass 

Like winter shadows o'er the peaceful mind, 

' Twere sweet to turn from life, and pass abroad, 

With solemn footsteps, into Nature's vast 

And happy palaces, and lead a life 

Of peace in some green paradise like this. 



ISAAC M'LELLAN. 

AGE, 43 YEAKS. 

Isaac McLellan, is a son of the late Isaac McLellan, Esq., of 
Portland, where he was born on the twentieth day of April, 1811. 
When quite young, his parents removed with him to Boston, m which 
city and ^icinity he has since resided. His early education was re- 
ceived at the Phillips Academy, in the town of Andover, Mass. From 
this school he entered Bowdoin College, and graduated in the class of 
1826. He then retm-ned to Boston, where he pursued the study of 
the law for some time, and on bemg admitted to the ' Suflblk Bar,' in 
1830, opened a law-ofRce, and commenced practice in that city. 
For some years past he has done but Httle professional business, de- 
voting his time and talent mostly to Hterature, and agricultural pur- 
suits. He now resides at Dorchester, a few miles out of Boston, 
where he has a beautiful and tastefully arranged country residence. 
Here he can enjoy the SAveets of poesy, and the comforts of life, amid 
blooming flowers, waA-ing trees, and fresh cool an-, a prinlege enjoyed 
by but few of our literary men, the most of whom are 

" Dwellers in the crowded city, 

'Mid its dust, and noise and heat." 

Mr. McLellan made his first appearance before the public, as a prom- 
ment writer, wliile a student in Bowdoin College. He was at that 
time a regular contributor to ' Knapp's Boston INIagazine,' and to the 
' New-York Literary Gazette,' a well estabHshed and popular journal, 
then edited by William C. Bryant, the poet. In 1830, while practic- 
ing law in Boston, he became associated with the ' Boston Daily Pat- 



118 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



riot,' which he conducted -with great ability. He was also, at differ- 
ent periods, connected -vnth other Boston journals and magazines. 
His first volume of jjoems appeared in 1836, under the title of 
' The Fall of the Indian, and other Poems' ; and two years later, in 
1838, 'The Year, and other Poems'; and in 1843, a third volume of 
poems, entitled ' Mount Auburn.' ]\Iany of the poems contained in 
these volumes were written by the author, dming College life, and 
were first published in ' Knapp's Boston Magazine,' and the ' New- 
York Literary Gazette.' In 1837, he pronounced a Poem before the 
'Phi Beta Kappa ' of Bowdoin College ; and in 1839, went to England, 
where he spent some time, and from thence made an extended torn* 
through France, Germany, Italy, also \isiting Egypt and Syria. While 
maldng this tom* he contributed a series of very interesting letters to 
the ' Boston Daily Courier,' under the head of ' Foreign Travels,' and 
returned to the United States after an absence of two years, and re- 
newed the practice of law in Boston. As a poet, Mr. McLellan has 
attained a high reputation, and is placed in the ranks of our most cele- 
brated poets. We regret to say, however, that his later poems are 
e%idently thrown off in a hurry, and with Uttle study. But few of 
them ewce the careful finish that beautifies his earlier productions. 
He is still adding to his established reputation by contibuting to a few 
of the select and leading Magazines now pubUshed. 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



119 



THE NOTES OF THE BIRDS. 



Well do I love those various harmonies 
That ring so gaily in spring's budding woods, 
And in thickets, and green, quiet haunts, 
And lonely copses of the summer-time, 
And in red autumn's ancient solitudes. 

If thou art pain'd with the world's noisy stir. 
Or crazed with its mad tumult, and weighed down 
With any of the ills of human life ; 
If thou art sick and weak, or mournest at the loss 
Of brethren gone to that far distant land 
To Avhich we all do pass, gentle and poor, 
The gayest and the gravest, all alike ; 
Then turn into the peaceful woods, and hear 
The thrilling music of the forest-birds. 

How rich the varied choir ! The unquiet finch 
Calls from the distant hollows, and the wren 
Uttereth her sweet and mellow pliant at times, 
And the thrush mourneth where the kalmia hangs 
Its crimson-spotted caps, or chirps half hid 
Amid the lowly dogwood's snowy flowers, 
And the blue jay flits by, from tree to tree. 
And, spreading its rich pinions, fills the ear 
With its shrill sounding and unearthly cry. 

With the sweet airs of spring, the robin comes ; 
And in her simple song there seems to gush 
A strain of sorrow when she visiteth 



120 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



Her last year's wither'd nest. But when the gloom 
Of the deep twilight falls, she takes her perch 
Upon the red-stemm'd hazel's slender twig, 
That overhangs the hrook, and suits her song 
To the slow rivulet's incessant chime. 

In the last days of autumn, when the corn 
Lies sweet and yellow in the harvest-field, 
And the gay company of reapers bind 
The bearded wheat in sheaves, — then peals abroad 
The blackbird's merry chant. I love to hear, 
Bold plunderer, thy mellow burst of song 
Float from thy watch-place on the mossy tree 
Close at the corn-field edge. 

Lone whip-poor-will. 
There is much sweetness in thy fitful hymn, 
Heard in the drowsy watches of the night. 
Ofttimes, when all the village lights are out, 
And the wide air is still, I hear thee chant 
Thy hollow dirge like some recluse who takes 
His lodging in the wilderness of woods, 
And lifts his anthem when the world is still : 
And the dim, solemn night, that brings to man 
And to the herds, deep slumbers, and sweet dews 
To the red roses and the herbs, doth find 
No eye, save thine, a watcher in her halls. 
I hear thee oft at midnight, when the thrush 
And the green, roving linnet are at rest, 
And the blithe, twittering swallows have long ceased 
Their noisy notes, and folded up their wings. 

Far up some brook's still course, whose current mines 
The forest's blacken'd roots, and whose green marge 
Is seldom visited by human foot. 



ISAAC m'lellan. 121 



The lonely heron sits, and harshly breaks 
The Sabbath-silence of the wilderness : 
And you may find her by some reedy pool, 
Or brooding gloomily on the time-stain'd rock, 
Beside some misty and far-reaching lake. 

Most awful is thy deep and heavy boom, 
Gray watcher of the waters ! Thou art king 
Of the blue lake ; and all the winged kind 
Do fear the echo of thine angry cry. 
How bright thy savage eye ! Thou lookest down 
And seest the shining fishes as they glide ; 
And, poising thy gray wing, thy glossy beak 
Swift as an arrow strikes its roving prey. 
Ofttimes I see thee, through the curling mist. 
Dart, like a spectre of the night, and hear 
Thy strange, bewildering call, like the wild scream 
Of one whose life is perishing in the sea. 

And now, wouldst thou, O man, delight the ear 
With earth's delicious sounds, or charm the eye 
With beautiful creations ? Then pass forth, 
And find them midst those many-color'd birds 
That fill the glowing woods. The richest hues 
Lie in their splendid plumage, and their tones 
Are sweeter than the music of the lute, 
Or the harp's melody, or the notes that gush 
So thrillingly from Beauty's ruby lip. 



11 



122 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



THE FIELDS OF WAR. 

They rise, by stream, and yellow shore, 

By mountain, moor, and fen ; 
By weedy rock, and torrent hoar, 

And lonesome forest-glen ! 
From many a woody moss-grown mound, 

Start forth a war-worn band, 
As when of old they caught the sound. 
Of hostile arms, and closed around — 

To guard their native land. 

Hark ! to the clanging horn — 

Hark, to the rolling drum ! 
Arms glitter in the flash of morn — 
The hosts to battle come ! 
The serried files, the plumed troop 

Are marshal'd once again. 
Along the Hudson's mountain-group, 

Along the Atlantic main ! 



On Bunker, at the dead of night, 

I seem to see the raging fight, 

The burning town, the smoky height, 

The onset, — the retreat ! 
And, down the banks of Brandywine, 
I see the leveled bayonets shine ; 
And lurid clouds of battle twine. 

Where struggling columns meet. 



ISAAC m'lellan. 123 



Yorktown and Trenton blaze once more ; 
And, by tbe Delaware's frozen shore, 
The hostile guns at midnight roar. 

The hostile shouts arise. 
The snows of Valley-Forge grow red, 
And Saratoga's field is spread 
With heaps of undistinguished dead. 

And filled with dying cries ! 



'Tis o'er ; the battle-shout has died 
By ocean, stream, and mountain-side ; 
And the bright harvest, far and wide. 

Waves o'er the blood-drenched field. 
The rank grass o'er it greenly grows — 
And oft, the upturning shares disclose 
The buried arms and bones of those 

Who fell, but would not yield ! 

Time's rolling chariot hath effaced 
The very hillocks, where were placed 
The bodies of the dead in haste, 

Who closed the furious fight. 
The ancient fort and rampart-mound 
Long since have settled to the ground, 

On Bunker's famous height — 
And the last relics of the brave 
Are sunken to oblivion's grave. 



124 ISAAC m'lellan. 



AUTUMN. 

'Eound Autumn's mouldering urn, 
Loud mourns the cliill and cheerless gale, 
. When nightfall shades the quiet vale. 

The stars in beauty burn. — IiOngpellow. 

Now, in the fading woods, the Atitumn blast 
Chants its old hymn, — a melancholy sound ! 

And look ! the yellow leaves aie dropping fast, 
And earth looks bleak and desolate around. 

The flowers have lost their glorious scent and bloom, 
And shiver now as flies the tempest by ; 

To some far clime hath flown the wild bird's plume, 
To greener woods, and some serener sky. 

The reaper's sheaf hath now grown white and thin ; 

The bearded wheat, and golden ear of corn, 
The jocund husbandmen have gathered in ; 

And from the fields the seedy hay is borne. 

The orchards all have showered their treasures down. 
In many a pile of crimson and of gold ; 

There will be wealth of sparkling price to crown, 
The foamy glass when the Year's death is knoll'd. 

Silent are these barren-hills ! save when the tree 

Falls 'neath the far-off woodman's measur'd stroke ; 

Or when the squirrel chatters noisily, 

Or carrion crow screams from the leafless oak. 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



125 



Methinks there's sometliing sad in thy decay, 
Oh ! merry-hearted Autumn ! like a man 

Whose head is in his prime turned gray, 
The red cheek in a little hour made wan. 

Poet ! doth no regrets o'ercast thy dream, 
To see the good old Autumn thus depart ? 

And gloom fast darkening Summer's golden gleam, 
E'en as afflictions change the cheerful heart. 

E'en as I follow to his lowly bed. 

The ashes of some kind, and well-beloved friend, 
So, with a saddened eye and mournful tread, 

I see thee. Autumn ! to oblivion tend. 

Yet beautiful are thy last fleeting days, 

When glows the hectic on thy dying cheek ; 

When leaves are red, clouds bright, and hangs the haze 
In many a colored fold, and gaudy streak. 

I hear the voice of Autumn ! the deep dirge 
Hymned plaintively within his ruined hall, 

Its solemn sound comes like the beating surge, 
Or thunder of the distant water-fall ! 



IV 



126 ISAAC m'lellan. 



NEW ENGLAND'S DEAD. 

New England's dead ! New England's dead ! 

On every hill tliey lie ; 
On every field of strife, made red 

By bloody victory. 
Each, valley, where the battle pour'd 

Its red and awful tide, 
Beheld the brave New England sword 

With slaughter deeply dyed. 
Their bones are on the northern hill, 

And on the southern plain, 
By brook and river, lake and rill, 

And by the roaring main. 

The land is holy where they fought. 

And holy where they fell ; 
For by their blood the land was bought, 

The land they loved so well. 
Then glory to that valiant band. 
The honor'd warriors of the land. 

0, few and weak their numbers were — 

A handful of brave men ; 
But to their God they gave their prayer, 

And rushed to battle then. 
The God of battles heard their cry, 
And sent to them the victory. 



ISAAC m'lellan. 127 

They left the ploughshare in the mould, 
Their flocks and herds without a fold, 
The sickle in the unshorn grain, 
The corn, half-garner'd, on the plain, 
And muster'd, in their simple dress, 
For wrongs to seek a stern redress, 
To right those wrongs, come weal, or woe, 
To perish, or o'ercome their foe. 



' And where are ye, O fearless men ? 

And where are ye to-day ? 
I call : — the hills reply again 

That ye have pass'd away ; 
That on old Bunker's lonely height. 

In Trenton, and in Monmouth ground. 
The grass grows green, the harvest bright 

Above each soldier's mound.' 



The bugle's wild and warlike blast 

Shall muster them no more ; 
An army now might thunder past. 

And they heed not its roar. 
The starry flag, 'neath which they fought, 

In many a bloody day, 
From their old graves shall rouse them not, 

For they have pass'd away. 



128 ISAAC m'lellan. 



THE DEATH OF NAPOLEON. 

Wild was the niglit ; yet a wilder night 

Hung round the soldier's pillow ; 
In his bosom there waged a fiercer fight 

Than the fight of the wrathful billow. 

A few fond mourners were kneeling by, 
The few that his stern heart cherish'd ; 

They knew, by his glaz'd and unearthly eye, 
That life had nearly perish'd. 

They knew by his awful and kingly look, 

By the order hastily spoken, U) 
That he dream'd of days when the nations shook, 

And the nations' hosts were broken. 

He dream'd that the Frenchman's sword still slew, 
And triumph' d the Frenchman's ' eagle ; ' 

And the struggling Austrian fled anew, 
Like the hare before the beagle. 

The bearded Russian he scourged again, 

The Prussian's camp was routed, 
And again, on the hills of haughty Spain, 

His mighty armies shouted. 



ISAAC M LELLAN. 



129 



Over Egypt's sands, over Alpine snows, 
At the pyramids, at the mountain, 

Where the wave of the lordly Danube floAvs, 
And by the Italian fountain, 

On the snowy clifFs,^vhere mountain streams 
Dash by the Switzer's dwelling, 

He led again, in his dying dreams, 
His hosts, the broad earth quelling. 

Again Marengo's field was won, 

And Jena's bloody battle ; 
Again the world was overrun. 

Made pale at his cannons' rattle. 



He died at the close of that darksome day, 
A day that shall live in story : 

In the rocky land they placed his clay, 
' And left him alone in his glory.' 



130 ISAAC m'lellan. 



JUNE* 

With sunny smiles and showery tears 
The soft, young June-day morn appears ; 
Above each twisting old tree-root, 

Above the verdurous springing grass, 
Above the green sward's tender shoot 

Thy dancing footsteps pass. 
Thy clear eye swims in liquid light. 

Thy golden tresses unbound flow, 
Thy gay voice ringeth with delight, 

Thy cheeks with healthful beauty glow. 

Sweet June ! with thy fair forehead bound 
With dewy wild-flowers, and with roses crown'd, 

I love thee well. 
Deep in the heart of man, all o'er the earth. 
Thy presence spreads a lively tone of mirth, 

A soft, deep spell. 
The newly-budded groves repeat thy call 

With joy through all their thick arcades ; 
And the hoarse-plunging waterfall 

Rejoices in its dim, primeval shades. 



s\in ^oL 



SHAKSPEARE'S TOMB. 



Eash Man ! — Forbear ! 
Thou wilt not surely tread 
On the anointed head 
Of him that slumbereth there I 
Wouldst meet the God of such as thou, 
With tliat unstartled brow ! 
With covered head and covered feet! 
Where William Shakspeare used to meet 
His God, 
Uncovered and unshod, 
In prayer! 
Thou wilt not surely A-enture where 
But sleeps the awful dead, 
With this irreverent air, 
And that alarming tread. 
What, ho? 
Beware ! 
The very dust, below 
The haughty dead, will make 
The walls about thee shake. 
If that uplifted heel, 
Shod as it is with steel. 
Should fall on Shakspeare's head! 



JOHN N E A L . 

AGE, 61 YEARS. 

John Ne^VL, Esq., also knowai in the literary world, as " Jehu 
O'Cataract," was born in the city of Portland, August the twenty- 
fifth, 1793. In a note he informs us that he is a graduate of no 
College, being a self-educated man, which reflects great credit 
upon his perseverance, and success in literary acquu-ements. On 
arriving at that age which frees the young man from parental bon- 
dage, Mr. Neal removed to Baltimore, and soon after entered into 
copartnership with John Pierpont, now known as Rev. John Pier- 
pont, the poet, but not meeting with success, they abandoned mercan- 
tile pm-suits, and chose the more hazardous ones of literature, in which, 
however, they Avere abundantly successful. His first articles appeared 
in the "The Portico," a Southern monthly Magazine. In 1818 
" Keep Cool, a Novel," liis first work, made its first appearance, fol- 
lowed the succeecUng year by " The Battle of Niagara, and other Po- 
ems," also " Otho, a Tragedy", in 1821, " Allen's History of the Ame- 
rican Revolution," to which he contributed largely ; in 1822, " Logan, 
a Novel," which from its great popularity was reprinted, and had an 
extensive sale in England. This was followed by "Seventy-Six," 
said to have been the most popular of Mr. Neal's works. In 1823, 
he published " Irandolph,"' also, " Errata, or the Works of Will 
Adams." During his sojourn in France and England, whither he went 
in 1824, he published " Brother Jonathan, a Novel," and also contrib- 
uted many able articles to Blackwood's and other INIagazines, among 
which were " The Five American Presidents and their Rival CancU- 
dates," an article that attracted a great deal of attention, and brought 
its author into distinguished notice. On his return, in 1828, to Port- 

12 



134 JOHN NEAL. 



land, Mr. Neal commenced his Novel of " Rachel Dyer," which ap- 
peared during that year. " Bentham's Morals and Legislation," " The 
Dowai Easters," "Authorsliip," and a -work on "SpirituaUsm," have since 
appeared; also, numerous contributions to the leading Magazines. 
Since that tune, Mr. Neal has devoted himself more particularly 
to liis profession, the practice of law, at Portland, and has acquired a 
considerable fortvme, -which he is now cnjoymg. Dr. Griswold, in his 
" Poets and Poetry of America," has the following notes ia regard to 
Mr. Neal :— 

" In a note in ' Blackstone's Magazme,' Mr. Neal says he wrote 
' Randolph ' in tliu'ty-six days, v^ith an interval of about a week 
between the two volumes, in wliich he wrote nothing ; ' Errata ' in 
less than tliirty-nine days ; and ' Seventy-Six ' in twenty-seven days. 
Dming this time he was engaged m professional duties, and they were 
written in the leism'e and idle hours of a laAvyer.' 

"When Mr. Neal Uved in Baltimore, he went one evening to the 
rooms of Pierpont, and read to him a poem which he had just com- 
pleted. The author of ' Airs of Palestme,' was always a nice critic, 
and he frankly pointed out the faults of the poem. Neal promised 
to revise it and submit it again on the following morning. At the 
time appointed he repaked to the apartment of his friend, and read 
to him a new poem of three or four hundred Hues ; he had tried to 
improve his first attempt, but faiUng to do so, had chosen a new sub- 
ject, a new measure, and produced an entu-ely new work, before he 
had retired to sleep. True poetry is never so wTitten." 

These notes illustrate the energy and go-ahead-itiveness of Mr. 
Neal. He cannot bear to have any thing obstruct his path, and if he 
cannot force his way through, he chooses the quicker mode of break- 
ing a new road aroimd. The rapidity with which his works were 
written, injm-ed then- permanent popularity, to secure which they 
should be carefully re\ised and re-issued. The ^psence of a finished 
education, also, detracted much fi-om their merit. TMs fault could 
also be remedied. 



JOHN NEAL. 135 



THE BATTLE OF NIAGARA. 

AN EXTRACT. (A) 

And there the stranger stays : beneath that oak, 

Whose shattered majesty hath felt the stroke 

Of heaven's own thunder — yet it proudly heaves 

A giant sceptre, Avreathed with blasted leaves, — 

As though it dared the elements, and stood 

The guardian of that cot, the monarch of that wood. 

Beneath its venerable vault he stands : 

And one might think, who saw his outstretch'd hands, 

That something more than soldiers e'er may feel, 

Had touch'd him with its holy, calm appeal : 

That yonder wave — the heaven — the earth — the air 

Had call'd upon his spirit for her prayer. 

His eye goes dimly o'er the midnight scene : 

The oak — the cot — the wood — the faded green — 

The moon — the sky — the distant morning light, — 

All, all are gathering on his dampen' d sight. 

His warrior helm and plume, his fresh-dyed blade, 

Beneath a window on the turf are laid ; 

The panes are ruddy through the clambering vines, 

And blushing leaves, that summer intertwines 

In warmer tints than e'er luxuriant spring. 

O'er flower-embosomed roof led wandering. 

His pulses quicken ; for a rude, old door 

Is opened by the wind ; he sees the floor. 



Strew'd with white sand, on which he used to trace 

His boyhood's battles, and assign a place 

To charging hosts, and give the Indian yell, 

And shout to hear the hoary grandsire tell 

How he had fought with savages, whose breath 

He felt upon his cheek like mildew till his death. 

Hark ! that sweet song, how full of tenderness ! 

O, who would breathe in this voluptuous press 

Of lulling thoughts ! so soothing, and so low, 

Like singing fountains in their faintest floW : 

It is as if some holy, lovely thing. 

Within our very hearts were murmuring. 

The soldier listens, and his arms are press'd 

In thankfulness ; and trembling on his breast ; 

Now, on the very window where he stands, 

Are seen a clambering infant's rosy hands. 

And now, — ah ! heaven ! blessings on that smile ! 

Stay, soldier, stay ! O, linger yet awhile ! 

An airy vision now appears, with eyes 

As tender as the weeping skies. 

Yet sunny in their radiance, as that blue 

When sunset glitters on its falling dew : 

With form — all joy and dance — as bright and free 

As youthful nymph of mountain liberty, 

Or naked angels, dream'd by poesy; 

A blooming infant to her heart is press'd 

And, ah, a mother's song is lulling it to rest. 

A single bound ! our chief is standing by, 

Trembling from head to foot with ecstacy ; 

' Bless thee ! ' at length he murmur'd, ' bless thes love ! 

My wife ! my boy ! ' Their eyes are raised above. 

His soldier's tread of sounding strength is gone. 



JOHN NEAL. 137 



A choking transport drowns his manly tone. 

He sees the closing of that mild, blue eye, 

His bosom echoes to a faint, low cry. 

His glorious boy springs freshly from his sleep, 

Shakes his thin sun-curls, while his eyebeams leap, 

As half in fear, along the stranger's dress, 

Then, half advancing, yields to his caress ; 

Then peers beneath his locks, and seeks his eye, 

With the clear look of radiant infancy. 

The cherub smile of love, the azure of the sky. 

The stranger now is kneeling by the side 

Of that young mother, watching for the tide 

Of her returning life : it comes ; a glow 

Goes faintly, slowly, o'er her cheek and brow : 

A rising of the gauze that lightly shrouds 

A snowy breast, like twilight's melting clouds, 

In nature's pure, still eloquence, betrays 

The feelings of the heart that reels beneath his gaze. 



12* 



138 



JOHN NEAL. 



AMBITION. 



I LOVED to hear the war-horn cry, ^^^ 

And panted at the drum's deep roll ; 
And held my breath, when — flaming high — 
I saw our starry banners fly, 
As challenging the haughty sky ; 

They went like battle o'er my soul : 
For I was so ambitious then, 
I burn'd to be the slave — of men. 

I stood and saw in the morning light, 
A standard swaying far and free ; 
And loved it like the conquering flight 
Of angels floating wide and bright. 
Above the stars, above the flght 

Where nations warred for liberty: 
And thought I heard the battle-cry 
Of trumpets in the hollow sky. 

I sail'd upon the dark-blue deep, 

And shouted to the eagle soaring ; 
And hung me from a rocking steep. 
When all but spirits were asleep : 
And 0, my very soul would leap 

To hear the gallant waters roaring : 
For every sound and shape of strife 
To me was but the breath of life. 



JOHN NEAL. 139 



THE BIRTH OF A POET. 

On a blue summer night. 

When the stars were asleep, 

Like gems of the deep, 
In their drowsy light ; 

While the newly-mown hay 

On the green earth lay, 
And all that came near it went scented away. 

From a lone, woody place 

There look'd out a face, 

With large, blue eyes. 

Like the wet, warm skies, 
Brim full of water and light ; 

A profusion of hair 

Flashing out in the air, 
And a forehead alarmingly bright ! 

'Twas the head of a poet ! He grew 
As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness grow, 
In the dropping of natural dew, 
Unheeded — alone — 
Till his heart had blown — 
As the sweet, strange flowers of the wilderness blow ! 



140 JOHN NEAL. 



Till every tliought wore a changeable strain, 
Like flower-leaves wet with the sunset rain : 
A proud and passionate boy was he, 
Like all the children of Poesy ; 
With a haughty look, and a haughty tread, 
And something awful about his head ; 
With wonderful eyes, 
Full of woe and surprise, — 

Like the eyes of them that can see the dead. 
Looking about. 
For a moment or two, he stood, 
On the shore of the mighty wood ; 
Then ventured out. 
With a bounding step and a joyful shovit, 
The brave sky bending o'er him ! 
The broad sea all before him ! 



PARE-THEE WELL. 



Ate, be it so! The clouds around me bending,- 
Thy sunnier lot in life must never shade : 

Hopes withered wishes on the heart descending, 
Must never cause that smiling lip to fade; 

Enough that we have met, though sad the parting- 
Enough, if I have shrined within thy heart 

One simple thought — ah, but one lingering teeling — 
With which, without a sigh, thou wouldst not part. 

Then fare-thee-well ! whatever the fate betiding — 

Whate'er of grief, or joy, may chance to me — 
Oh, may Love's rainbow ever o'er thee bending, 

Hallow a life of bright tranquillity. 
And, when of me all memory hath perished. 

If chance — as chance it may — thou hear'st my name, 
Think ' tis of one whose thoughts of thee are cherished — 

Who — dead to love — had lived alone for fame. 



EDMUND FLAGG. 

AGE, 39 YEARS. 

Hon. Edmund Flagg is the only son of the late Edmund Flagg, 
of Chester, N. H., and was born in the town of Wiscasset, on the 
twenty-fourth day of November, 1815. He graduated v,ith distinction 
at Bowdoin College, m the class of 1835, and immediately went West 
with his mother and sister, passing the winter at Louisville, teach- 
ing the classics to a few boys, and contributing largely to Prentice's 
' Louisville Jom-nal.' The summer of 1836, he passed in wandering 
over the expansive prairies of IlHiiois and Missouri, -WTiting ' Sketches 
of a Traveller,' for the 'Louisv-ille Journal,' wliich were afterwards 
published in a work entitled ' The Far West.' During the succeecUng 
fall and winter, Mr. Flagg read law with the Hon. Hamilton Gamble*, 
now Judge of the Supreme Court of Missom-i, and commenced practice 
in the Courts. Li 1838, he edited the ' St. Louis Daily Commercial 
Bulletin,' and dm-mg that fall, pubHshed ' The Far West,' in two vol- 
umes, from the press of the Harpers. Li December, he became 
connected with George D. Prentice, Esq., in conducting 'The Louis- 
ville Literary News-Letter,' but on account of ill health, in the follow- 
mg spring, he accepted an invitation to practice law with the Hon. 
Seargent S. Prentiss, of Vicksburg, Miss. Wliile here Mr. Flagg was 
severely wounded in a duel with the noted desperado and duelist. Dr. 
James Hagan, ecUtor of the 'Vicksburg Sentinel,' and who was 
killed in a duel two years after. In 1842, he conducted the ' Gazette,' 
pubUshed at Marietta, Ohio, and at the same time vvTote two novels— 
'Carrero; or. The Prime Minister," and 'Francis ofValois,' which 
were pubHshed in New-York. In 1844 and 5, he conducted the ' St. 
Louis Evening Gazette ;' and for several years succeedmg was ' Re- 
porter of the Courts,' of St. Louis County. In the meantime, he pub- 



144 EDMUND FLAGG. 



lished several prize novels, among which were ' The Howard Queen,' 
' Blanche of Artois, and also several dramas, that were successfully 
l)roduced m the theatres of St. Louis, Louisnlle, Cincinnati, and New- 
York. 

In the spring of 1848, Mi: Flagg went out as Secretarj- to the 
Hon. Edward A. Hannegan, American Muiister to Berlin, which af- 
forded him- an opportunity to travel over England, Germany and 
France. On his return, he again located at St. Louis, and resumed 
the practice of law. In 18i30, he received the appointment of Consul 
for the Port of Venice, under the administration of President Fillmore. 
He \isited England and "Wales, and travelled through central Europe, 
to Venice, and entered upon the duties of liis consulate, corresponding 
in the meantime with several of the New-York Journals. In the fall 
of 1851, he visited Florence, Rome, Naples, and the other ItaHan cit- 
ies, and in November, embarked at IMarseilles, for New-Orleans, and 
on his arrival proceeded to St. Louis, and took charge of the Demo- 
cratic organ at that place, and conducted it through the Presidential 
canvass of 1852. The following year, liis last work was published in 
New-York, in two illustrated volumes, entitled ' Venice, The City of 
the Sea,' and comprises the history of that celebrated capital, from the 
invasion by Napoleon, in 1797, to its capitulation to Radetzky, after 
its renovation and the terrible seige of 1848 and 49. A thii-d volume, 
to be entitled ' North Italy since 1849,' is, we miderstand, nearly 
ready for publication. In 1853 and '54, a series of elegant illustrated 
works, issued in numbers, were published by Meyer, in New-York, 
mider the title of the ' United States Illustrated.' The larger portion 
of the Sketches m these works, referring to the "West, were contribut- 
ed bj' Mr. Flagg. He is now Cliief Clerk of a Bureau m the Depart- 
ment of State, at Washington, wliich office he has filled for several 
years. As a prose wi'iter, Mr. Flagg takes a high rank in the Htera- 
ture of oiu- country, and is destined to achieve a fame that his native 
State may well be proud to honor. As a poet, he occupies a promi- 
nent position among our second class poets. 



EDMUND FLAGG. 145 



THE CLOSE OF THE YEAR. 

It is the night's lone hour ! 
The trooping winds have ceased their ^Yint'ry wail 
And, quietly, like sleeping seraphim. 
Lie pillow' d on the dim and distant cloud. 
The many stai's like the weird warders 
Of an angel-host, look sadly down 
From their far, heavenly homes, in mournful beauty, 
On our world of sorrow ; and the placid wave 
Heaves to the presence of her stately queen, 
And silvery clouds enfold their loosen"d robes, 
And, languidly, as wearied visions, sweep 
Around her throne ; — watching the death-bed, 
Of the dying year, as fondly as they watched 
His hour of birth ; — looking upon our worft. 
With the same calm and guardian watchfulness, — 
With the self-same serene and holy love. 
As though they ne'er had wept o'er scenes of blood, 
And earth had never known of desolation. 
Oh, to a soul, not wed to this dark world, — 
A heart which yearneth for a holier sphere, — 
There is a beauty on Night's queenly brow, 
Deck'd in her jewel'd tiara of stars, 
Which, Avith a power unspeakable, appeals ! 
It tells of Avasted years, and shatter'd dreams, — 
Of violated vows, and vanish'd joys. 
And shrouded memories ; and, as we kneel, 
The pale, sweet images around us rise 
13 



146 EDMUND FLAGG. 



Of Memory, and Hope, and Peace, and Youth; 
And with imploring hands beckon us back, 
To list the j)recepts of our better days. 

And you, ye stars, Avhich on my brow pour out 

Your holy light ! — Orbs of unearthly glory ! — 

Altar-fires, before Jehovah's shrine 

Forever burning ; or, the living eyes 

Of seraph-hosts, that round his mighty throne, 

Veiling their faces, bow, while myriad voices 

Shout in sweet seraph -music their rejoicing, — 

Ye are the types of Fate, if ye are not, — 

As hoary men of old have loved to dream, — 

Its arbiters ; and, on the giant scroll 

Of the blue pillar'd, boundless firmament, 

Glitt'ring all o'er with gorgeous heraldry, — 

Is writ the record of another year ! 

Star after star ceaseth to shine on high, — 

Year after year passeth from human life 

And earthly being ! 

Anothek teak ! 
How like a knell upon the thoughtful mind, — 
How like a requiem on the Fancy's ear, — 
How like a dirge upon the wearied heart. 
Sinks the deep cadance of those mournful Avords, — 
Another yeak hath fled ! — Gone ! — it is gone ! 
With all its smiles and tears, — its woes and joys ! 
Gone with all its anguish, Avhich hath wrung the heart ; 
Gone with its rapture, which hath made earth Heaven ; 
Its hopes and dreams, — its sighs and agonies, — 
Its weariness and bitterness of life, — 
Its yearnings for a happier world to come. 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



147 



Spring, with her forest-plume and em'rald fields, 
Hath gone, — and Summer's flowers and vine-leaves ; 
Autumn, sad Autumn, with her rainbow woods, 
"While Winter's stern and melancholy form 
Hangs o'er his harp and wails the year's decay. 
Another star hath vanish'd from the sky, — 
Another wave hath broken on the shore, — 
Another leaf hath quiver'd from the tree 
Of mortal being ; and their last, low moan, 
Upon the night, in mystic minstrelsy, — 
Like music to the dreaming slumberer, — 
Is dying on the ear. 

The" year 
Hath fled, but, upon ev'ry brow its recording 
Is writ; and ev'ry breast hath its own register 
Of joy and woe. And human hearts have bled, 
And tears have flowed ; Affection bowed her o'er 
The pale, sweet form, and the still, marble brow 
Where all — where all Life's hopes were garnered. 
And Love hath kneel' d, — to find its idol clay ! 
Ambition soared, — to sink, — to soar no more ! 
And Hope hath waked to watch, but watched in vain ! 

Yet, Love, the phoenix, from his ashy grave 

Again shall rise ! Hope's flowers shall bloom and wave 

Around Despair's dark tomb ! Ambition's torch. 

Rekindled and relumed, more brightly burn ; 

And human hearts will dream, as they have dreamed. 

And they will bleed, as they have bled before. 

"Upon Time's vestal altar ever flames 

His sacrificial fires, consuming hopes. 

And joys, and youth — to be renew'd no more. 



148 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



Through some deserted chamber of eacli breast, 
Some phantom shape, — some spectre ol' the past, - 
The wand'ring ghost of some departed joy, — 
The troubled spirit of some happy dream, — 
Forever glides ; and, in its desolate aisles, 
Seeketh a sanctuaiy — finding none. 
The year hath passed ! And, as with all mankind 
And the fair forms of Nature, it hath passed 
With nations, — kingdoms, — thrones. 

Change after change ! 
Upon all earth, thy shadow rests ! 
On ev'ry land, — on ev'ry race, thy seal 
Is sternly set ; and change succeedeth change 
In an unending, everlasting round. 
One thing alone, in all our life, is sure ; 
One thing alone is changeless, — that is Death ! 
How doth this changeless course of Nature show, 
That there are other, — brighter worlds than this ! 
That there are other beings, — other laws. 
And other purposes, than cannot be scann'd 
By the dim, darken'd powers of human sense ! 



We do not know the laws which rule our being, 
Nor can we pierce that deep, mysterious veil, 
Which shrouds our destiny and its design. 
But this we know, — that as hath been, will be, — 
The shriek of sorrow, and the wail of woe, — 
The knell of death, — bereavement, and despair, — 
And stifled moans of anguish'd human hearts. 
The sound of joy, — the sigh of agony ; — 
The veil, the pall, — the bridal and the bier. 



EDMUND FLAGG. 149 



And this we know, — tliat God's vast Universe 

Is sway'd by sov'reignty unchanging, — just; 

While all Man's sufferings and Nature's throes 

Are but the features of one mighty plan. 

But list ! From the lone turret of yon sacred Fane, 

From which so oft, in other years, have gone 

The self-same mournful tones, — Time's iron tongue 

Again — again, in solemn numbers, tolls 

The heavy boom of a funereal knell ! 

The year is dead! 
And now, the midnight hour is come. 
The spirit-hosts are forth ! Illusive voices, — 
Well-remember'd tones upon the ear 
Of the sad watcher fall ; and whispers seek him 
From that misty shore beyond the billows 
Of Death's spectral flood ; and pale, sweet faces, 
With their gaze of more than mortal fondness, 
On the mystic wave an instant linger, — 
Beck'ning him away ; then, in the vapor veil 
"Which shrouds the tomb, they melt — they melt forever ! 
And Memory, the great Magician, lifts the pall 
Of the dead Past, and myriad visions throng 
Her magic halls ; and all those visions. 
And those spirit-tones, and the deep meanings 
Of that mournful bell read to the lonely watcher, — 
Ay ! — to him, — to us, — to all Earth's dwellers, — 
That, ere long, Time shall to each, — 
As to the year now in Oblivion buried, — 
Be no more forever ! 



13^ 



150 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



THE MAGNETIC TELEGRAPH. 



Science, 
Witli lier twin-sister Art, liath sealed th' Empyrean ! 
Science, — like the dread angel of th' Apocalypse, — 
Hath destined Space and Time to be no more ! 
From the immortal mind now leaps the thought, 
And, yet unspoken, on the lightning's wing 
Girdleth the globe ! — Away — away flasheth 
The magic line of thought and feeling ! 
Over land, — o'er sea, — o'er mountain, stream, and vale,- 
Through forest dense, and darkest Avilderness, — 
'Mid storm and tempest, fleets the electric spell : — 
Then to its home, through earth's deep entrails, speeds 
Backward in fiery circuit to its rest ; 
"While earth's green bosom doth itself evolve 
Magnetic flame to light the flashing line ! 
No more the viewless couriers of the w'inds 
Arc emblems of the messengers of mind. 
The speed of sound, — the speed of light surpass'd, — 
The speed of thought, — Mind's magnetism, — 
And th' omnipotent power of Fancy's flight. 
Alone can rival the electric charm ! 
Swifter than earth upon its axle whirl'd, — 
Swifter than Time, — for Time itself 's outsped, — 
More swift than speech, — for unembodied thoughts, 
And feelings unconceived, and words unformed, 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



151 



Fly on the enchanted cord in syllables ! 

The fabled chain connecting Earth with Heaven, — 

Its links may circle the great globe itself; 

And o'er its surface weave a mystic web 

Of tissued wire-work, like to human nerves, — 

On which volition, passion, feeling fly, 

Electrifying, by magnetic spells. 

All nations, and all kindreds, and all tongues, — 

'Till Commerce, slave no more to sordid gain, 

Shall civilize and christianize a world ! 

Man's mind with necromantic art hath plucked 

The sunbeam from his home by magic touch 

To paint his visions ; and, with Heaven's lightnings 

Swift he pens his thoughts, or telegraphs o'er seas, 

And State, and continents, his secret wish 

To the wide brotherhood of human-kind ! 

E'en now — e'en now, the hoarse Atlantic surge 

Reverberates from Mississippi's shores ; 

And Neptune's trident by the Sire of Floods 

Is grasped'd in friendship ! In the far-off East, 

Lake Erie, from her iron crag, sends forth 

Her greeting to the Ocean ! The North ! 

The frozen North salutes the sunny South, 

And thy blue peaks, proud Alleghany, shout 

Unto the sumnnts of the Rocky Range ; 

While prairie, forest, city, mountain-height, 

And the sweet valley of La Belle Riviere, 

Like voice of many waters, join their song! 

And the dread question of God's ancient seer, — 

" Canst thou send lightnings that tliey go and come. 

And say, — ' Here, — here, we are ? ' " — is answer'd ! 



152 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



THE WITHERED FLOWERS. 

I KNEAV they would perish ! 

Those beautiful flowers — 
As the hopes that Ave cherish 

In youth's sunny bowers : — 
I knew they'd be faded ! 

Though with fond, gentle care 
Their bright leaves were shaded, 

Decay still was there. 

So all that is brightest 

Ever first fades away, 
And the joys that leap lightest, 

The earliest decay. 
The heart that Avas nearest. 

The Avildest will rove. 
And the friend that was dearest. 

The first cease to love. 



And the pvirest, the noblest, 

The loveliest — we know 
Have e'er been the surest, 

And the soonest to go. 
The birds that sing sweetest, 

The flowers most pure, 
In their beauty are fleetest, 

In their fate the most sure. 



EDMUND FLAGG. 153 



Yet still though thy flowers 

Are withered and gone, 
They will live like some hours 

In memory alone. 
In that hallowed shrine, only, 

Sleep things we would cherish. 
Pure, priceless, loved, lonely, 

They never can perish. 

Then I'll mourn ye no more, 

Ye pale leaves that are shed. 
Though your brightness is o'er. 

Your perfume is not fled ; 
And like thine aroma — 

The spirit of flowers — 
Remembrance will hover 

O'er the grave of past hours. 



154 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



SMILES OFT DECEIVE 'US. 



The saddest heart oft gayest seems, 

And joins the merry glee, 
While breaking are its tender chords, 

By griefs we cannot see. 
Then trust not to a smiling face, 

Or heart that merry seems, 
For in tliat lieart may sorrow be, 

Though joy from out it beams. 

' Frank Geeenwood.' 



Ah, do not say the heart is light, 

And free from every care, 
Because the eye beams calm and bright, 

And only peace is there. 
Around the monumental stone 

The gayest flowers may creep — 
The breast may wither chill and lone, 

Yet smiles the brow may keep. 



Unseen — unknown — the electric dart 

Sleeps in the rolling cloud — 
So sleeps within the stricken heart 

The grief it most would shroud. 
The sunniest smile may often glow 

Where sorrows gloomiest lower — 
Upon the sky will hang the bow, 

Though all is shade and shower. 




EWSmftli Sc 



EDMUND FLAGG. 155 



The mountain-oak oft seems most sound, 

When yielding to decay — 
The breast may hide a deadly wound, 

While lip and cheek are gay. 
Along the crushed and crumbling tower 

The ivy-leaf may steal — 
So laugh and jest in pleasure's bower 

The wasting heart conceal. 

Soft summer's leaves are fresh and fair, 

But not so bright are they, 
As when on Autumn's misty air 

The forest-rainbows play. 
Fair on the cheek is beauty's blush, 

Where rose and lily meet, 
And yet consumption's hectic flush, 

Though sad, is far more sweet. 

'Tis not — 'tis not the clam'rous groan — 

The querulous complaint — 
The gushing tear — the frequent moan 

That speaks the soul's lament. 
Sorrow's a proud — a lonely thing. 

And never stoojjs to mourn — 
The Spartan's mantle o'er the fang 

It clasps, and bleeds alone. 

There oft is woe which never weeps — 
Tears which are never shed — 

Deep in the soul their fountain sleeps, 
When hope and joy are fled. 



156 



EDMUND FLAGG. 



Yet, who would ask tlie stagnant breast, 
Which chills not — never glows ? 

Who would not spurn that waveless rest 
Which neither ebbs nor flows ? 



Then, think not, though the brow is free 

From shade of gloom or care. 
The breast is as a summer sea, 

And happiness dwells there. 
Ah, think not, though the sunny glance 

Upon the cheek may play, 
And on the lip the jest may dance, 

That grief is far away. 



ODE TO CHESAPEAKE BAY. 

Thou Ocean Bay ! 
Though now with sails unfurl'd, 
Collecting from the mighty deep, 
Over thy curling waters sweep 
The fleets ol half the world ; 
There was a day, 
Kor distant far the time, 
When in thy solitude sublime, 
Save light canoe by artless savage plied, 
No sail was ever seen to skim thy billowy tide. 

Bright Chesapeake — 
Though now thy shores are crown'd 
With grassy lawns and tields of grain, 
That smile and cheer the laboring swain, 
And songs go blithely round, 
That well bespeak 
How pleasant joys may flow; 
Yet two short centuries ago 
No human voice was here, save savage yell, 
And dark upon thy wave the forest shadows fell, 

Mother of waters — 
Thy noble streams did glide 
Beneath a woody canopy, 
Through countless years; and bright and free, 
And lovely by thy side. 

As beauteous daughters, 
They lift their voice on high. 
And clap their hands as they go by 
Proud Baltimore's rich monuments and domes, 
Columbia's palace-halls, and Richmond's patriot homes. 



S E B A SMITH. 

AGE, 62 YEAKS. 

Seba Smith, Esq., was bom In the toA^ii of Buckfield, about the 
middle of the month of September, 1792. He was educated at Bow- 
doin College, and studied law in the city of Portland, Avhere he was 
admitted to the bar, and commenced practice. When about thirty- 
two years old, he married Miss Elizabeth Oakes Prince, a beautiful 
and accomplished girl of sixteen, who had attracted liis attention, 
and won his heart by her beauty and precocious talent. He v/as at 
one period editor of the " Eastern Argus," and under his charge it be- 
came one of the most popular journals in the State. He was also con- 
nected with the "Portland Courier," for some time. Soon after this he 
removed to the city of New-York, and rencAved the practice of his pro- 
fession. He is very \ridely known as the once celebrated " Jack 
Downing, whose humiurous letters convulsed the readuig public m al- 
most unparalleled mii-th. As a prose writer he has acquired a very 
high reputation ; but as a poet stands in the second rank. He has 
written a few, and only a few, beautiful poems, two of which we have 
included in our selection. Mr. Smith and liis wife, the distinguished 
Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, have been called, and we thiiJc very correctly 
too, the ' Ho-\\itts' of America. If any persons are entitled to tliis en- 
viable name, they at least are foremost. Mr. Smith has published a 
number of works which met ■«ith a favorable reception, and we are 
happy to learn that he has a volume in the press of J. C. Derby & Co., 
New-York, entitled " Way Down East, or. Portraitures of Yanlvee 
Life," which, judging from the title, will be one of the most mirth- 
provoking and readable books that has been issued for some time. 
A correspondent from New York, who has seen proof sheets of tliis 
work, says, " It needs but an announcement to command an extensive 
sale. There are millions of hearts in tliis country, that would throb 



Avith delight at the sight of a book from the original ' Major Jack 
Do\rauig.' The press has been bearing ample testimony to the au- 
thor's merit for the last twenty years." The New-York Courier and 
Enquirer, in an article upon Mr. Smith's literary merit, has the fol- 
lowing exceedingly flattering commendation : — " There is no doubt 
that Mr. Seba Smith, is the best painter of Yankee peculiarities 
that ever wTote. He is true to nature, and never carricatures, but 
without carriaturing, is most amusing." Notices that have been be- 
stowed upon his poetical works, have generally been mifavorable, al- 
though some of them gave him full as much credit as he deserved. 
" Powhatan, a Metrical Romance," the longest of Mr. Smith's poems, 
published several years ago, contains a few fine passages, and much 
that is inferior poetry. The foUomng is a specimen of its style : 

' Come hitlier, child,' the monarch said, 
' And sit thee down by me; 

And I'll tell thee of thy mother dead, 

Fair sprout of the parent tree. 

Twelve suns ago she fell asleep, 

And she never woke again ; 

And thou wast then too young to weep. 

Or to share thy father's pain. 

But wouldst thou know thy mother's look, 

"When her form was young and fair, 

Look down upon the tranquil brook, 

And thou'lt see her picture there. 

For her own bright locks of tlowing jet, 

Are over thy shoulders hung; 

In thy face her loving eyes are set, 

And her music is on thy tongue. 



And I am an aged, sapless tree, 

That soon must fall to the plain ; 

And then shall my spirit, bright and free, 

Kejoin thy mother again. 

And thou, my child,' — But here a sigh 

Had reached the aged chieftain's ear; 

He turned, and lo, his daughter's eye 

Was beaming through a trembling tear. 



SEE A SMITH. 161 



THE LITTLE GRAVES. 

'TwAS autumn, and tlie leaves were dry, 

And rustled on tlie ground, 
And chilly winds went whistling by 

"With low and pensive sound. 

As through the grave-yard's lone retreat, 

By meditation led, 
I walked with slow and cautious feet 

Above the sleeping dead. 

Three little graves, ranged side by side, 

My close attention drew ; 
O'er two the tall grass bending sighed, 

And one seemed fresh and new. 

As lingering there I mused awhile 
On death's long, dreamless sleep, 

And morning life's deceitful smile, 
A mourner come to weep. 

Her form was bow'd, but not with years, - 
Her words were faint and few, 

And on those little graves her tears 
Distilled like evening: dew. 



14* 



162 



SEBA SMITH. 



A prattling bey, some four years old, 
Ker trembling hand embraced, 

And from my heart the tale he told 
Will never be effaced. 

' Mamma, now you must love me more, 
For little sister's dead ; 
And t'other sister died before. 
And brother too, you said. 

' Mamma, what made sweet sister die ? 
She loved me when we played : 
You told me, if I would not cry, 
You'd show me where she's laid.' 

' 'Tis here, my child, that sister lies. 

Deep buried in the ground ; 

No light comes to her little eyes, 

And she can hear no sound.' 

' Mamma, why cant we take her up, 
And put her in my bed ? 
I'll feed her from my little cup, 
And then she icont he dead. 



For sister '11 be afraid to lie 
In this dark grave to-night, 

And she'll be very cold, and cry 
Because there is no light.' 



SEBA SMITH. 163 



' No, sister is not cold, my child, 

For God, who saw her die, 
As He look'd down from Heaven and smil'd, 
Called her above the sky. 

' And then her spirit quickly fled 
To God by whom 'twas given ; 
Her body in the ground is dead, 
But sister lives in Heaven.' 

' Mamma, wont she be hungry there, 

And want some bread to eat ? 
And who will give her clothes to wear. 
And keep them clean and neat ? 

' Papa must go and carry some, 
I'll send her all I've got. 
And he must bring svv'cet sister home, 
Mamma, now must he not ? ' 

' No, my dear child, that cannot be ; 
But if you're good and true, 
You'll one day go to her, but she 
Can never come to you. 

* Let little children come to me,' 
Once our good Saviour said ; 
And in his arms she'll always be. 
And God will give her bread.' 



164 



SEBA SMITH. 



THE SNOW STORM. 

The cold winds swept the mountain's height, 

And pathless was the dreary wild, 
And mid the cheerless hours of night 

A mother wander'd with her child: {k) 
As through the drifting snow she press'd. 
The babe was sleeping on her breast. 

And colder still the winds did blow, 
And darker hours of night came on, 

And deeper grew the drifting snow : 

Her limbs were chilPd, her strength was gone ; 

O God ! ' she cried, in accents wild, 
■ If I must perish, save my child ! ' 

She stripp'd her mantle from her breast, 
And bared her bosom to the storm, 

And round the child she wrapp'd the vest 
And smiFd to think her babe was warm. 

With one cold kiss, one tear she shed, 

And sunk upon her snowy bed. 

At dawn a traveller pass'd by, 

And saw her 'neath a snowy veil ; 
The frost of death was in her eye. 

Her cheek was cold, and hard, and pale ; 
He moved the robe from off the child, 
The babe look'd up and sweetly smiled. 



SEBA SMITH 165 



THE POOL OF BETIIESDA. 

Unto the holy city came 

Judea's hapless sons and daughters. 
The paralytic, blind and lame, 

To seek Bethesda's healing waters — 
The Angel o'er the fountain mov'd 

With kindly power from day to day ; 
And he that first its virtues prov'd, 

Was heal'd, and forthwith went his way. 

Amid the throng who waited there, — 

Judea's sons and daughters, — 
A patient Hebrew many a year 

Had watch'd the troubled waters. 
And often at the healing hour 

He feebly toward the fountain bore him, 
But all too late to feel its power, 

For one had always stepp'd before him. 

A stranger came and look'd awhile 

On him who there in anguish lay, 
Then kindly said, with holy smile, 

' Hebrew, arise and go thy way ! ' 
As forth into the world that hour, 

With footsteps light, the Hebrew trod, 
' I've felt,' he cried, 'the Almighty's power, 

I've heard the voice of God.' 



166 



SEBA SMITH. 



YOUTH AiSD OLD AGE. 

Old age came down the steep of years, 

Beneath life's burden bending ; 
With tottering steps he feebly trod, 
And breathing sighs and prayers to God, 
He met with youth ascending. 

' Ah, whither dost thou bend thy course ? ' 
Said he whose head was hoary — 

' I go,' said youth, ' to yonder heighth. 
Where through long vistas, glancing bright 
Are Honor, Wealth, and Glory. 

' Be not deceived,' old age replied, 

' In vain will be thy toiling ; 
I long have chased those beaming joys. 
Oft grasp'd them, but the fleeting toys 

Were from me still recoiling.' 

Youth raised his eyes and look'd ahead ; 

The prospect still was bright — 
' I must go on, prevent me not, 
For yonder is a sunny spot. 

That promiseth delight.' 

With joyous bound, he onward went, 

His eager course to keep. 
And, hope still sparkling in his eyes. 
Towards yonder sunny spot he flies. 

And struggles up the steep. 



T 



THE TROUBADOUR'S SERENADE. 

TO THE LADY OF HIS UNREQUITED LOVE. 

Lady! the dark, long night 

Of grief and sorrow, 
That knows no cheerful light, 

No sun-bright morrow, 

Is gathering round my heart, 

In gloom and tears. 
That will not, cannot part, 

For long, long years. 

Oh! would that thought could die! 

And fadeless mem'ry 
Pass, like the night-winds sigh, 

Away, away from me. 

There is a quiet resting place. 

Cold, dark, and deep; 
"Where grief shall leave no trace, 
And misery sleep. 



Would I were slumbering there, 
From life's sad dream! 

The tempest's cold, bleak air 
Sounding my requiem. 

Fair lady I my harp's sad song 
Hath wing'd its flight ; 

But murmurs its chords along, 
My last 'good night.' 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 

DIED, AGED SO YEARS. 

Frederic Mellen was a native of Portland, a son of the late 
Hon. Prentiss Mellen, LL. D., and a brother of Grenville Mellen, a 
biographical sketch of whom is to be found in the preceding pages of 
this work. He was an alumnus of Bowdoin College, of the class of 
1825, but of his birth, and after life we have no information, other than 
that he died at an early age. Lilie his deceased brother, he was a 
man of undoubted genius, and, like him, was stricken down before it 
had fully developed its richness and beauty. He devoted his talent 
mostly to the art of Painting, and many of his protraits and landscapes 
are proof that no vmskilful hand gave grace and beauty to them. INIr. 
Mellen was highly esteemed by all who knew him, and his death was 
much lamented. As a poet, he would have become very distinguish- 
ed, had he have hved. He was for some time a contributor to the 
United States Literary Gazette, from which we have made our selec- 
tions, and from the " Atlantic Souvenir," a popular and able Annual, 
to which he also contributed. His poetry, we regret to say, is of a 
foreign character, and bears no imprint of American genius, yet it is 
equally meritorious. He died in the city of Boston, and from an 
obituary notice of liis death, ' we make the following extract : 

" With a native character of great suavity, simplicity, and instmc- 
tive correctness of moral sentiment, an intuitive perception of poetic 
beauty, and pecuHar quickness of apprehension and susceptibihty to 
the influences under which he was reared from infancy, and imbibing 
at home the purest principles of \'irtuc, he seasonably received the ad- 
vantages of an education at Bowdoin College, which nourished a love 
of classic and polished literature, and enabled him to cultivate those 
powers with which he was gifted, with an upward aim to excel in 
whatever belonged to mental or professional accomplishment. A per- 
15 



170 FREDERIC MELLEN. 

vacling taste for one favorite art, eai-ly discovered, and displaying a j^e- 
culiar aptitude for the finest combinations of forms and colors — the 
art of painting — obtained the mastery of liis pursuits and purposes ; 
and he bade fair, by the proofs of original effort, to arrive at distinc- 
tion in the most elegant branches of this polite department. He also 
possessed a very deKghtful and poetic talent. A number of gems 
have been 2)reserved, among the choicest and sweetest which grace the 
Annuals, Avhich would foi-m a pleasing circlet on the now pale brow, 
upon which the blooming wreath of youthful hope has untimely per- 
ished. He had a short time previous to his death, removed to a 
sphere more propitious to the cultivation of his favorite pm'suits, and 
the interest of liis friends were awakened to his merited success. But 
his monument is, alas ! to be marked by the broken column ; and the 
blighted flower of liis manly promise is watered, but cannot be re\ived 
by the tears of friendship and affection." 

' Yet 'twas but yesterday that all before him 

Shone in the freshness of lite's morning hour; 
Joy's radient smile was playing briefly o'er him, 

And his light feet impressed but vernal flowers. 
The restless spirit charm'd his sweet existence, 

Making all beautious iu youth's pleasant maze, 
While gladsome hope illumed the onward distance, 

And lit with sunbeams his expectant days. 

How have the garlands of his childhood wither'd, 

And hope's false anthem died upon the air ! 
Death's cloudy tempests o'er his way have gather'd, 

And its stern bolts have burst in fury there. 
On his pale forehead sleeps the shade of even. 

Youth's braided wreath lies stain'd in sprinkled dust, 
Yet looking upward in its grief to Heaven, 

Love should not mourn thee, save in hope and trust.' 



FKEDERIC MELLEN. 171 



SONG OF THE WINTKY WIND. 



txr , Away. 

We have outstaid the hour— mount we our clouds! 

Byron's Manfred. 



' Adieu ! adieu ! ' thus the storm-spirit sang, 
' Adieu to the southern sky ; ' 
And the wintry wind that round him rang, 
Caught up the unearthly minstrelsy, 
' Adieu ! adieu ! to its flood's bright gleams. 
Its waving woodlands, its thousand streams.' 

' Off ! off ! ' said the spirit : like the whirlwind's rush 
His snow-wreathed car was gone ; 

And their cold white breath came down the night, 
As his startled steeds sped on. 

Yet the night- wind's dirge o'er the changing year. 

Fell slowly and sadly upon the ear. 

' 'Twas the song of woe, — of that wintry wind, 

As the laughing streams ran by. 
And lingered around the budding trees. 

Once clothed in its own chaste livery. 
Its tones were sad, as it sunk its wing, 
And this was its simple offering : 



172 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 



' Farewell ! to the sunbriglit South ; 

For the Summer is hastening on ; 
And the Spring flowers bright in their fragrant youth, 
Mourn not for the Winter gone. 

' But when days have pass'd and I come again, 
Their forms shall have died away ; 
And mine must it be their cold shroud to twine, 
From the snow curls that o'er them lay. 

' Farewell ! to the sunbright South ; 

To its midnight dance and its song ; 
For each heart is out for the Summer breeze, 
As it sports in its mirth along. 

* And the student hath lifted his pallid brow, . 
To list to its soothing strain ; 
But oft shall they sigh in the parching heat, 
For the wintry wind again. 

' Farewell ! to the sunbright South ; 

To the chime of its deep, deep sea ; 
To its leaping streams, its solemn woods, 
For they all have a voice for me. 

' Farewell ! to its cheerful, its ancient halls. 
Where oft in the days of old, 
When the warning embers burnt low and dim, 
And dark strange stories were told ; 

' My hollow moans at the casement bars, 
Stole in like a sound of dread ; 
And the startled ear in its lonely sigh, 
Heard the voice of the sheeted dead. 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 173 

' But the days are pass'd — the hearth is dim, 
And the evening tale is done ; 
'Mid the green-wood now is the choral hymn, 
As it smiles in the setting sun. 

' Farewell ! to the land of the South ; 
My pathway is far o'er the deep, 
"Where the boom of the rolling surge is heard. 
And the bones of the shipwreck'd sleep. 

' I go to the land of mist and storm. 

Where the iceberg booms o'er the swell, 
Afar from the sunlit mountains and streams ; 
Sweet land of the South ! farewell ! ' 

The song had ceased ; and the Summer breeze. 

Came whispering up the glen ; 
And the green leaves danced on the forest- trees, 

As they welcomed its breath again. 
And the cold rocks slept in the moonlight wan. 
But the wintry wind and its song were gone. 



15* 



174 FREDERIC MELLEN. 



SABBATH EVENING. 

List ! there is music in the air ! 

It is the Sabbath evening bell, 
Chiming the vesper hour of prayer 

O'er mountain top and lowland dell. 
And infancy and age are seen, 
Slow winding o'er the church-yard green. 

It is the eve of rest ; the light 

Still lingers on the moss-grown tower, 

While to the drowsy ear of night, 
Slowly it marks the evening hour, 

'Tis hushed ! and all is silent there, 

Save the low, fervent voice of prayer. 

And now far down the quiet vale, 
Sweet hymnings on the air float by ; 

Hushing the Whip-poor-will's sad wail 
With its own plaintive melody. 

They breathe of peace, like the sweet strains 

That swept at night o'er Bethlem's plains. 

And heads are bowed, as the low hymn 
Steals through that gray and time-worn pile ; 
And the altar lights burn faint and dim, 
In the long and moss-grown aisle. 
And the distant footfall echoes loud, 
Above that hush'd and kneeling crowd. 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 175 

And now beneath the okl elna shade, 

Where the cold moon-beams may not smile ; 

Bright flowers upon the graves are laid, 
And sad tears shed unseen the while. 

The last sweet gift afi'ection brings, 

To deck the earth to which it clings. 

How beautiful those simple flowers 

Strewn o'er that silent spot now sleep ; 

Still wet with summer's gentle showers, 
As if they too could feel and weep ! 

They fade and die ; the wintry wind 

Shall leave no trace of them behind. 

The bright new moon hath set : the light 

Is fading on the far blue hills ; 
And on the passing breeze of night, 

The music of ten thousand rills 
Comes echoing through the twilight gray, 
With the lone watch-dog's distant bay. 

The crowd hath pass'd away ; the prayer 
And low-breath'd evening hymn are gone ; 

The cold mist only lingers there, 

O'er the dark moss and mould'ring stone. 

And the stars shine brightly o'er the glen, 

Where rest the quiet homes of men. 



176 FREDERIC MELLEN. 



VENETIAN MOONLIGHT. 

The midnight cliime had tolled from Marco's towers, 

O'er Adria's wave the trembling echo swept, 
The goudolieri paused upon their oars, 

Muttering their prayers as through the still night crept. 
Far o'er the wave the knell of time was borne, 

Till the sound died upon the tranquil breast; 
The Lea-boy started as the peal rolled on, 

Gazed at his star and turned himself to rest. 
The throbbing heart that late had said farewell. 

Still lingering on the wave that bore it home. 
At that bright hour sighed o'er the dying swell. 

And thought on years of absence yet to come. 

'Twas moonlight on Venetia's sea, 
And every fragrant bower and tree 

Smiled in tlie glorious light : 
The thousand isles that clustered there 
Ne'er in their life looked half so fair 

As on that happy night. 

• 
A thousand sparkling lights were set 

On every dome and minaret , 

While through the marble halls 

The gush of cooling fountains came, 

And chrystal lamps sent far their flame 

Upon the high-arch' d walls. 

But sweeter far on Adria's sea, 
The gondolier's wild minstrelsy 

In accents low began ; 
While sounding harp and martial zell, 
The music joined, till the rich swell 

Seemed heaven's wide arch to span. 



FREDEEIC MELLEN. 177 



Then faintly ceasing — one by one. 
That plaintive voice breathed on alone, 

Its wild, heart soothing lay : 
And then again that moonlight band. 
Started as if by magic wand. 

In one bold burst away. 

The joyous laugh came on the breeze, 
And, 'mid the bright o'er-hanging trees, 

The mazy dance went round ; 
And, as in joyous ring they flew. 
The smiling nymphs the wild flowers threw. 

That clustered on the ground. 

Soft as a summer evening's sigh, 
From each o'er-hanging bacony. 

Low, fervent whisperings fell : 
And many a heart upon that night 
On fancy's pinions sped its light, 

Where holier beings dwell. 

Each lovely form the eye might see. 
The dark-browed maid of Italy, 

With love's own sparkling eyes : 
The fairy Swiss — all — all that night 
Smiled in the moon-beam's silvery light. 

Fair as their native skies. 



178 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 



TO THE ARNO. 



Bright stream ! how calm upon thy waters rest 
The hues of evening, when the empurpled West 

Droops its soft wing upon thy floods ; 

And the dark waving of thy woods 
Deepens the shadows of thy tranquil breast. 

And when the mountains catch, upon their heights, 
The last faint blush of glory, and the lights 

Of heaven twinkle in the sky; 

How sweet the cicada's lone cry 
Mourns through thy woods in Autumn's mellow nigbts. 

How lovely are thy shores when on the air, 
O'er the rich vineyards stealing from afar, 

The vintner's careless cheering soars, 

Lingering amid thy olive bowers ; 
And bright in heaven burns the evening star ! 

Flow on, thou classic stream, thy verdant shore ; 
Will live within our hearts till life is o'er ! 

Still will fond memory think of thee, 

Thou pride of blooming Tuscany, 
And sigh to look upon thy stream once more ! 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 179 



THE VILLAGE CHURCH. 

Sweet home of peace ! the ling'ring day, 
S'till plays upon thy turrets grey ; 
But silent now the voice of prayer 
Which once uprose so sweetly there ; 
The cricket's fitful cry alone 
Is mingled with the low wind's moan. 
Sadly they seem to wail the fate, 
They left thy altars desolate. 

Sweet home of peace ! how oft I've stood 
Amid thy little solitude, 
A truant boy stolen forth to get 
The crane's-bill and the violet, — 
And listened to the village hum 
Which on the quiet air would come, 
With the long echoing laugh and shout, 
Sent shrilly from the urchin rout. 

And oft at Autumn's balmy eve, 
When the bright flowers began to leave 
The faded grass, and gloriously 
The harvest moon went up the sky ; 
From the far-distant greenwood tree, 
The kit's light notes of melody, 
Stole upward to the holy ground, 
As joyously the dance went round. 



180 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 



Here, when the Sabbath day was done, 
And ruddily the Summer sun 
Shone o'er the little vale below, — 
Uprose the hymn so sweet, so slow, 
The traveller in the distant glen 
Paused on his way to catch again 
The lingering notes, till parting day, 
Threw its cold shadows o'er his way. 



Those days have passed ; and mournfully 
The chilly wind goes rustling by. 
That finds not there those beauteous flowers 
It sported with in happier hours ; 
And gentle forms' who loved to gaze 
Upon their bloom in' youthful days. 
Faded, like them in their beauty, and died, 
And humbly here sleep side by side. 



FREDERIC MELLEN. 181 



THE CRUSADER'S FAREWELL. 

Lady, farewell ! 
The morning sun is smiling on thy bower, 
Bathing in glorious light each tree and flower, 

And mossy dell. 

The matin chant 
Is rising now ; but when the evening hymn 
Sends its soft echoes in each woodland dim, 

And storied haunt, 

At that lone hour, 
Afar from thee, I'll look upon the sky, 
And think each breeze as low it murmurs by. 

Comes from thy bower. 

And when that star 
Which we have loved together, brightly burns 
In the clear sky, I'll think on one who mourns 

For me, afar. 

When thou art lone, 
And o'er thy heart Hope sheds no brightening ray : 
sing the notes I loved in happier days — 

Days fled and gone. 
16 



182 FREDERIC MELLEN. 



And when the shout 
Of mailed men is soaring through the sky 
With crash of armor, and the redoubled cry 

Of battle rout, 

I'll think on thee ; 
Thy name shall be my war-cry, and its swell 
Shall sound the death-note of the infidel — 

The watchword of the free. 

But hark!— that swell! 
It is the trumpet's parting call — I come ! 
Pray for thy lover, and for Christendom. 

Farewell ! Farewell ! 



DECEMBER SNOW. 



Fall thickly on the rose-bud, 

Oh! faintly falling snow! 
For she is gone who trained its branch, 

And wooed its bud to blow. 

Cover the well-known pathway, 

Oh, damp December snow! 
Her step no longer lingers there 

Wlien stars begin to glow. 

Melt in the rapid river. 

Oh, cold and cheerless snow! 
She sees no more its sudden wave. 

Nor hears its foaming flow. 

Chill every song-bird's music, 

Oh, silent, suUeu snow! 
I cannot hear her loving voice, 

That lulled me long ago. 

Sleep on the earth's broad bosom. 

Oh, weary, winter snow! 
Its fragrant flowers, and blithesome birds 

Should with its loved one go. 



WILLIAM BELCHER- GLAZIER. 

AGE, 2V YEARS. « 

William B. Glazier is a native of the city of Hallowell, and a 
son of Franklin Glazier, Esq., who was for many years a member of 
the old and well known firm of Glazier, Masters & Smith, booksellers 
and 23ublishers. He was born on the twenty-ninth day of June, 1827. 
His early years were mostly spent in his native town, Avhere he pre- 
parcd himself to enter Harvard University, which he did in 1843, and 
on graduating, in 1847, returned to Hallowell, and soon after read 
law in the office of H. W. Fame, Esq., who was in practice there 
at that time. On being admitted to the bar, in 1850, he commenced 
practice at Newcastle, in this State, where he remained three years, 
when he again returned to his native city, and still resides there, in 
the practice of his profession. Mr. Glazier is still an unmarried man, 
owing to which his poetry is tinged too much with love-yearnings 
although they are beautifully interwoven into many of his poems. 
He possesses an originality of thought, a beautiful and graceful ex- 
pression, that but very few of our yoimger poets excel. He is ac- 
qim-ing a high reputation, and daily advancing towards the goal of pop- 
ularity, and the temple of fame, where Poesy, -with gentle hand, be- 
stows rewards upon her favorite children. In 1853, he published a 
small volume of poems that met with a very flattering reception ; 
many of the poems included in this volume, first appeared in the 
" Knickerbocker Magazine," of which Mr. Glazier is a liighly es- 
teemed contributor. In making our selections from his poems we 
have been obliged to take such as we could find in the various maga- 
zines and journals to which he is a contributor, and we have endea- 
vored to do liim justice. Had we have possessed a volume of his 
'" Focms," we could have doubtless selected many of more merit than 
those here included. He has delivered poems on several occasions 
16* 



186 WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 

before different Societies, and we have heard them highly spoken of 
by gentlemen of acknowledged talent. The poem before the Literary 
Societies of Bowdoin College, at the Commencement, in August last, 
was deHvered by liim, and is said to be his master-piece. The fol- 
lowing beautiful lyric was introduced into the poem, and receiv- 
ed with much applause. It bears the imprint of his pecuUar grace- 
fulness and beauty of expression. It may be well to remark that tliis 
little gem is not a mere. creation of fancy, but came from the Poet's- 
heart, the same as did that beautiful song, ' O, No, We Never 
Mention Her," from the heart of the English poet, Hapies Bayley. 
The circumstances attending the composition of them both, are similar. 

Oh; Summer Sea, thy murmuring waves are singing, 

A song of sweetness in my listening ear, 
Youth, Love and Hope, that lulling strain is bringing 

Back to my heart in forms distinct and dear; 
Again the glorious visions of Life's morning 

Kise on my sight, and make the darkness flee, 
Again upon thy shores, at daylight's dawning, 

I walk with one beloved, oh, Summer Sea. 

Your soft waves kiss her feet and love to linger 

Upon the sand where her light steps have stray 'd, 
Now in thy tide she dips her snowy finger, 

And now I feel it on my forehead laid; 
' I sign thee with a sign' she softly murmurs, 

And turns her blushing face away from me, 
' Thou Shalt be happy, love, through many summers, 

'And I will love thee, hear me, Summer Sea!" 

Thon heard'st the vow, oh, gentle Sea of Summer! 

Thou Iieaid'st it, laughing in the morning ray, 
Thou knewest well that Love, the earliest comer, 

Is very prone to make the shortest stay ; 
The sign dried up beneath the rays of morning. 

The vow found wings as tixst and far to flee, 
Now, I prefer my sleep at daylight's dawning, 

To wandering on thy shores, oh, Summer Sea! 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 187 



LAND BREEZES. 

Down some bright river hast thou never drifted, 

And marked on either side 
Green fields and slopes, witli cedar vallies rifted, 

That met the wooing tide. 

Fair groves all panoplied with Summer's armor, 

Knolls where the wild bee roams, 
And o'er the Avhole a deeper light and warmer ; 

The light of happy homes. 

And as thy bark was downward dropping slowly 

By spots and scenes like these, 
Upon thy brow, with kisses calm and holy, 

Lingered the warm land-breeze. 

The river widened, and its sandy verges 

Crept from thee either way; 
And on thine ear were borne the ocean's surges, 

Upon thy lip its spray. 

In its tumultuous strife and ceaseless tossing, 

Its agony and storm. 
From shores that thou hadst left, thy damp brow crossing, 

Blew soft that land-breeze warm. 



188 WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 

Unnoticed then were billows huge and dashing, 

Unmarked the tempest's roar ; 
Thou only heard'st the waters crisply washing 

Upon the river's shore. 

Down some bright stream of song thy heart hath floated, 

And seen each side inclined, 
Far stretchijig plains to noblest thought devoted ; 

Green hill-sides of the mind. 

Fair groves where earnest hopes were boldly growing, 

Gardens of Love and Truth ; 
And o'er the whole the poet's heart was throwing 

Its passions and its youth. 

By bluffs of Wit, by nooks of Fancy gliding, 

Drifted thy bark along ; 
While o'er thy spirit, with a sweet abiding, 

Dallied the breeze of song. 

Till the perpetual swell of fierce emotion, 

Of restless care and strife. 
Foretold that thou wert nearing that broad ocean ; 

The mighty sea of Life. 

Across its waves forever high and crested. 

Forever icy cold. 
Fluttered that breeze from shores where once it rested, 

And lapped thee in its fold. 

Oh, weary voyager on that broad Atlantic 

Of human woe and wrong ! 
Didst thou not see its billows wild and frantic, 

Lulled by the breeze of Song ? 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIEE. 189 



HOMELESS. 

She stood alone on the sullen pier 

With the night around, and the river helow, 
And a voice, it seemed to her half-crazed ear, 

Wa:s heard in the waters splashing flow : 
' You are tired and worn ; come hither and sleep. 
Where your poor dim eyes shall cease to weep, 
And no morning shall break in sorrow.' 

The long grass hung from each wave-washed pile, 
And the water amid its loose locks ran ; 

And she thought, with a strange and ghastly smile. 
Of a long-fled day, and a false, f^se man ; 

How her hind had oft smoothed his damp brown hair ■ 

But he and the world had left her there, 

With no friend but the beckoning water. 

Was Heaven so far, that no angel arm 

Might round the Homeless in love be thrown, 

To keep her away from death or harm ? 
Or was it, in truth, a mercy shown, 

That left her at night, alone, to think 
Of her manifold woes upon the brink 
Of that deep and pitiless river. 



190 WILLIAM B. GLAZIEK. 

She looked to the far-ofF town and wept ; 

And oh ! could you blame the poor girl's tears ? 
For she thought how many a maiden slept, 

With Love and Honor as wardens near ; 
While she was left in the world alone, 
Wifli none to miss her when she was gone 

Where the merciless waves were calling. 

No human eye and no human ear 

E'er saw a struggle or heard a sound ; 

And the curious never could spare a tear 

As they looked at morn on the outcast drown'd ; 

But ah ! had speech been given the dead, 

Perhaps those motionless lips had said, 
' No homeless are found in heaven.' 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 191 



FEVER. 

Thou hast been ill, and I was never nigh thee, 

I, whose existence by thine own was fed, 
I did not watch in patient silence by thee, 

I did not pray beside thy fevered bed ; 
True, there were gentler forms about thee moving, 

And softer hands were fondly clasped in thine, 
But yet there beat not there a heart more loving. 

There was no keener agony than mine. 

Could I have kneeled beside thee, and have told thee 

All my full heart would gladly have outpoured, 
Had it been granted in these arms to fold thee, 

Gazing into thine eyes without a word ; 
Or to have kissed thy cheek, so hot and throbbing, 

Or to mine own thine aching forehead press'd, 
Or to have soothed thy low and half-heard sobbing, 

Thou hadst been happy, I had been too blest. 

I could have hushed my breath while thou wert sleeping, 

And when thine eyes from slumber should unclose, 
The same glance should meet them, dimmed with weeping 

That met them fondly ere they sought repose ; 
And if the wing of Death had o'er thee hovered, 

With its slow motion swaying Life's dull tide, 
From its chill shadow I had thee recovered. 

Or in it sunk, unshrinking, at thy side. 



192 WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 

Alas ! thcu might'st have died, and yet beside thee 

Have never seen my form or heard me speak, 
Love's last fond accents might have been denied thee, 

Love's latest kiss have never pressed thy cheek ; 
I might have mingled in the world, and never 

Have felt the blessing that thy latest prayer 
Was for the one that soon from thee must sever. 

Was, that he yet thy happiness might share. 

The midnight came, and I could never slumber, 

The morning came, and brought the night's unrest, 
The thought that thou in pain the hours must number. 

Filled with a deeper pain my quickened breast ; 
And, when at eve, the stars so calm and holy 

Looked on the earth, then came the bitter fear 
That thy pure soul unfit for mine so lowly, 

Must seek their sky, its only fitting sphere. 

But thou art spared me, oh, this stubborn spirit, 

Unbent before, is meek and thankful now, 
The garland of thy love I did not merit. 

And yet it is not plucked from oS* my brow ; 
And, in my dreams, thy semblance, like an angel, 

Smiles gently on me, bids me not to fear, — 
Into my spirit sinks the blest Evangel, 

And echoes sweetly, ' Be thou of good cheer.' 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIEK. 193 



THE ROSARY. 

T:Aey sat together in the wood, 

The maiden and the boy, 
And through the shade the sunlight fell, 

Like sorrow crossed with joy. 
So in their hearts Love's virgin ore 

Was crossed with Grief's alloy. 

' And take,' she said, ' this cross and chain, 

And wear it on thy breast : 
I've counted oft each bead and link 

To lull me to my rest ; 
And many a time this little cross 

Hath to my lips been press'd. 

' Thou goest from me — I no more 

Shall watch about thy way ; 
I shall not see thy form at eve. 

Or hear thy voice by day ; 
All that my weakness leaves for me 

Is for thy sake to pray. 

' If Evil lure thee from the Right, 

If Conscience plead in vain, 

Oh ! like an iron link to Truth, 

Heaven make this fragile chain ! 
And may this cross burn in thy heart, 
Till thou art strong ag-ain. 



17 



194 WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 

' If bluer, softer eyes than mine 
Seem worlds of love to thee, 

If other lips and other tones 
Croud out my memory, 

Still be this chain about thy soul, 
To draw thee back to me.' 

And so they parted : she to wear, 
Above, an angel's crown, 

And he to feel, on land or sea, 
In forest or in town, 

A cross and chain upon his heart. 
From the far heaven let down. 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 195 



CAPE COTTAGE. 

We stood upon the ragged rocks, 
When the long day was nearly done, 

The waves had ceased their sullen shocks 
And lapped our feet with murmuring tone, 

And, o'er the Bay, in streaming locks 
Blew the red tresses of the Sun. 

Along the west the golden bars 

Still to a deeper glory grew. 
Above our heads, the faint few stars 

Looked out from the unfathomed blue. 
And the far city's clamorous jars 

Seemed melted in that evening hue. 

Oh sunset sky, oh purple tide, 

Oh friends to friends that closer press'd, 
Those glories have in darkness died. 

And ye have left my longing breast, 
I could not keep you by my side, 

Nor fix that radiance in the west. 

Upon those rocks the waves shall beat 

With the same low and murmurous strain, 

Across those waves with glancing feet 
The sunset rays shall seek the main ; 

But when together shall we meet, 
Cape Cottage, on thy shores again ? 



196 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 



NEARER TO THEE. 

Yeaks, years have fled, since, hushed in thy last slumber, 
They laid thee down beneath the old elm tree ; 

But with a patient heart each day I number. 
Because it brings me nearer still to thee. 

Twilight comes, and robes in softest splendor 

All that is beautiful on land and sea. 
And o'er my spirit flings an influence tender, 

For in that hovir I nearer seem to thee. 



The night is gone ; and as the mists of morning 
Before the Day-god's burning presence flee. 

Thus in my heart a welcome light is dawning, 
That cheers me as I nearer press to thee. 

I sometimes think thy spirit kindly watches 
Over the heart that loved so tenderly ; 

For there are rapturous moments when it catches 
As if in dreams, a blessed glimpse of thee. 



In those sweet seasons thou dost come before me. 
With loveliness that earth may never see : 

I feel thy presence like a blessing o'er me, 
And then I know I nearer am to thee. 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 197 



THE LAUNCHING. 



She starts— she moves— she seems to feel 
The thrill of life along her keel, 
And spurning with her foot the ground, 
With one exulting, joyous bound, 
She leaps into the ocean's arms ! 

H. W. LONOFELLOW. 



Well may they deck the ship to-day 

With colors flaunting free, 
Well may she wear her best array, 

So soon a bride to be ; 
Long has the dainty beauty kept 

Her lover from her charms, 
But now her last lone sleep is slept, 

We give her to his arms. 

Oh, guard our darling from the storm : 

Thy bosom never bore 
A prouder or more faultless form, 

A fairer love before. 
Tame down thy billows thundering shocks, 

Thy foaming wrath, O Sea ! 
And keep her from the angry rocks 

That lie along her lee. 

17* 



198 



WILLIAM B. GLAZIER. 



Her home has been where green hills kiss 

The river's rippling tide, 
But, oh ! our eyes must learn to miss 

The Ocean's new-made bride, 
Where white-capp'd waves forever rise, 

Where sea-birds skim the foam, 
Far off, beneath the sea-kissed skies, 

Our Beauty seeks her home. 

Ah, proud may be the mariners 

That stand upon her deck ; 
They little fear, in strength like hers, 

The tempest or the wreck : 
And proudly may her ensign fly 

That bears the stripes and stars ; 
Tli& peace that hcilds a ship like this, 

Is ivorth a thousand wars. 



i,A 



LIFE'S HARVEST-FIELD. 

When morning wakes the earth from sleep, 

With soft and kindling ray, 
We rise, Life's harvest-fleld to reap, — 

'Tis ripening day by day. 

To reap, sometimes with joyful|heart, 

Anon with tearful eye 
We see the Spoiler hath a part, — 

We reap with smile and sigh. 

Full oft tfie tares obstruct our way ; 

Full oft we feel the thorn ; 
Our hearts grow faint — we weep, we pray — 

Then hope is newly born. 



Hope that at last we all shall come, 
Though rough the way and long; 

Back to our Father's house, our home. 
And bring our sheaves with song, 



A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 

Miss Woodbmdge Avas bom in Penobscot Coirnty, but in what year, 
or to-rni we have found it impossible to ascertain. She is inckicled in 
Read's Female Poets of America, and also in the American Female 
Poets, by CaroHne May, the latter, only, giAing a biograpliical sketch, 
from which, however, we can gain no definite information. Her pa- 
rents resided at Stockbridge, Mass., where she spent the larger portion 
of her youthful days. She first became knoA^ii as a poetess by her 
simple poems, contributed to Mrs. Child's Juvenile Miscellany, and 
other rehgious journals. In 1847, an elegant, illustrated volume, en- 
titled ' The Rainbow,' was published m Albany and New York, and 
edited by A. J. McDonald, Esq., to which she contributed several 
poems of equal merit to the others which it contained. The design of 
this work was to suppose the diSerent States of the Union to be flower 
gardens, and from each, contributions to the work were received, thus 
forming a national bouquet of the flowers of literatui'e. Miss Wood- 
bridge, associated with the Hon. Beverly Tucker, Henry T. Tucker- 
man, Rev. Dr. Sprague, Alfred B. Street, and others, represented the 
State of New York, although she should, more properly, have repre- 
sented her native State, which, on that occasion, foimd poor representa- 
tives in two nom dejulume, contributors of but little merit. 

She also for several years contributed to the most pojjular Annuals 
then published, but few of which are now in existence. For ten years 
she was connected with the Albany Female Academy, as a teacher, 
and while there she won the love and warmest fi-iendsliip of her asso- 
ciates, and the esteem of all who Imew her, by her purity of character, 
kindness of disposition, and superior talent. In 1846, she finished her 
engagements at this school, and removed to Brooklyn, New York, 



202 



A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 



and became connected with the Brooklyn Female Seminaiy, a new in- 
stitution, which was opened during that year. On the occasion of 
the dedication of this Seminary she wrote the following poem ; — 

If In yon glorious arch on high 

Another star should purely shine, 
How would we gaze with wond'ring eye! 

How fervent bless the light divine! 
The miser turning from his gold, 

The penitent from contrite prayer ; 
The child of joy — of grief untold, 

Would join to hail the stranger fair. 

That star hath risen ! Even now 

Its first faint beam salutes the earth, — 
Father of Lights ! To Thee we bow, 

Oh! bless the hour that gave it birth! 
Long may it shine with steady ray ; 

Long gild these ' heights' with purest beam ; — 
Star of our hopes, still cheer our way. 

Until we wake from Life's long dream. 

How long she remained at this Seminary, we caimot learn, or whe- 
ther she is still comiected with it. In her private character, and also 
in her literary productions she reminds us very much of that gifted 
young lady. Miss Lucy Hooper, whose early death was so deeply la- 
mented by all who knew her, or were familiar with her writings. 
Miss Woodbridge, to a large extent, possesses the same gentleness of 
disposition, purity of heart, and winning manner, which made this lady 
so much beloved. Her wTitings are characterized by a deep religious 
purity and earnestness, and are not without their proper share of 
merit. 



A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 



203 



LIFE'S LIGHT AI^D SHADE. 

How strangely, in tliis life of ours. 

Light falls amid the darkest shade ! 
How soon the thorn is hid by flowers ! 

How Hope, sweet spirit, comes to aid 
The heart oppressed by care and pain, 

And whispers, ' all shall yet be well ! ' 
We listen to her magic strain. 

And yield the spirit to her spell. 

How oft when Love is like a bird 

Whose weary wing sweeps o'er the sea. 
While not an answering note is heard, 

She spies a verdant olive-tree ; 
And soon within that sheltering bower. 

She pours her very soul in song, 
While other voices wake that hour, 

Her gentle numbers to prolong. 

Thus, when this heart is sad and lone. 

As Memory wakes her dirge-like hymn, 
When Hope on heavenward wing has flown, 

And earth seems wrapped in shadows dim ; 
! then a word, a glance, a smile, 

A simple flower, a childhood's glee, 
Will each sad thought, each care beguile, 

Till joy's bright fountain gushes free. 



204 A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 

To-day, its waters softly stirred, 

For Peace was nigh, that gentle dove ! 
And sweet as song of forest-bird, 

Came the low voice of one I love ; 
And flowers, ' the smile of Heaven,' were mine, 

They seemed to whisper ' Why so sad ? 
Of love we are the seal and sign. 

We come to make thy spirit glad.' 

Thus ever in the steps of grief 

Are seen the precious seeds of joy, 
Each ' fount of Marah ' hath a ' leaf,' 

Whose healing balm we may employ. 
Then 'midst Life's fitful fleeting day, 

Look up ! the sky is bright above ; 
Kind voices cheer thee on thy way, 

Faint spirit ! trust the God of Love ! 



A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 205 

MYRTLE CREEK, 

A BEAUTIFUL STREAM IN SPENCERTOWN, NEW YORK. 
A GENTLE STREAM VUlknOWll tO SOllg, 

Yet Beauty is its dower; 
It floweth through the meadows green, 

Where many a fragrant flower 
Bends o'er it, with loving eye, 

In the still, noon-tide hour. 

A crystal stream whose waters flash 

In morning's golden ray ; 
Now dancing like a frolic child. 

Then stealing slow away. 
As if amid these sylvan scenes, 

They fain would longer stay. 

It windeth through a quiet vale ; 

It turns a rustic mill ; 
On either side are harvest-fields ; 

Above, a wood-crowned hill ; 
While near, is seen a graceful spire, 

A hamlet, fair and still. 

In morning hour, or noontide ray, 

In the soft twilight gleam, 
Steals gently on the list'ning ear, 

The murmur of that stream ; 
Blent oft with leaf-notes from its banks. 

Like music of a dream. 



18 



206 



A. D. WOODBRIDGE. 



TO LILLIE. 

Where is tlie lily now ? 

Lily, sweet and fair ! 
Blossoms it 'neath forest bough, 

Shedding fragrance there ? 
Doth the zephyr's softest kiss 

Touch its petals sweet ? 
Would that I were woodland bough ! 

Or the zephyr fleet ! 

Doth the lily flourish now ? 

Doth it lift its head, 
Joyfully, to meet the morn ? 

Are the night-dews shed 
Lovingly, on petals bright ? — 

Would I were the dew ! 
Or a beam of matin lighc, 

And I'd bless it too. 



Lily ! emblem meet art thou 

Of a little child ! 
Such as Jesus loved to bless — 

Meek, and undefiled. 
We will trust her to His carfe, 

To His faithful breast ; — 
Lillie dearest ! Lillie fair ! 

There, with thee, we'll rest. 



THE TWO HANDS. 

WRITTEN AFTER ILLNESS. 

Thy hand, O God, in ministry of pain, 
Was laid on burning clieek and aching brow, 
And the quick pulses, calmed in mercy now, 

Foured a fast fever's tide thro' every vein. 
And wild unrest through throbbing limb and brain, 

And yet, O God, another hand in thine. 

Lent by thy goodness to this need of mine, 
With gentle soothing hath restored again 

Calm days of health and nights of sweet repose. 
And through that dear hand's angel ministry, 
I upward guide my trembling faith to see. 

What pain forgets, what reason scarcely knows, 

That God's own chastening hand itself must be 
Like the dear hand of love his love bestows. 



EDWARD PAYSON WESTON. 

AGE, 35 TEARS. 

Edward P. Weston is a son of Rev. Isaac Weston, and was 
born at Boothbay, Lincoln County, on the nineteenth day of January, 
1819. His father was then located there as a settled minister, lie 
was educated at Bowdoin College, from which he graduated in 1839, 
and has since that time been engaged in teaching. For the past se- 
ven years he has been Principal of the Maine Female Seminary, at 
Gorham, which is undoubtedly, the best and most popular Female 
School in this State. Li 1840, Mr. Weston edited a volume of 
poems from the Students and Graduates of Bowdoin College, under 
the title of ' Bowdoin Poets,' among which were, Longfellow, McLel- 
lan, Thatcher, Walter, Claude L. Hemans, a son of Mrs. Hemans, the 
poetess, Cutter, Soule, Fuller, Flagg, and others, including liim'self, 
each of whom contributed several poems. This volume was published 
by Joseph Griffin, Brunswick, and was well received, the first edi- 
tion being entirely exhausted soon after it was pubHshed, and the pub- 
hsher has since issued a second and enlarged edition, which has had a 
wide circulation, but no wider than its merit deserves. It gives evi- 
dence of a superior poetical discrimination on the part of the editor, 
whose selections are characterized by a perfect knowledge of what 
genuine poetry consists of. Mr. Weston's poem, entitled 'A Vision of 
Immortahty,' pubhshcd in the papers anonymously, was received as 
Bryant's, owing to the opening lines, 

' I, who essayed to sing in earlier days 
The T/ionatopsis, and The IJimn to Death, 
Wake now the Hymn to Immortality.' 

and as such it was bountifully praised by the leading journals, and 
copied throughout the entu-e country, also in France and England. 



210 EDWARD P. WESTON. 

When It was discovered that Bryant was not its author, those 
journals wliich had been most bountiful in their encomiums upon its 
merit, felt much chagrined, while others laughed at the joke. In jus- 
tice to the innocent author, whom many have censured for tliis decep- 
tion, unmeaningly committed, we will explain its pubHcation. It was 
originally a part of a poem delivered some years ago by Mr. Weston 
before the Phi Beta Kappa of Bowdoin College, and which consisted 
entirely of imitations of the most distinguished American poets. How 
well he succeeded in liis imitations, ' A Vision of Immortality,' v/ill 
show to the reader. A better imitation of Bryant could not, we ven- 
ture to say, be made. The poem was published as a ' Sequel to Tha- 
natopsis,' with the consent of the poet Bryant, by Mr. Weston per- 
sonally obtained. It matters not, as far as its Uterary merit is con- 
cerned, whether it was written by the one or the other, and those edi- 
tors who so foolishly revoked their flattering notices when a more 
humble name claimed its authorship, done themselves but Httle credit. 
As the production of Mr. Weston, it is a perfect imitation, Mobile as 
that of Mr. Bryant, it wovdd be nothing more than his old ftnniliar 
style of writing. 

Mr. Weston is now, and has been for some time past, an assistant 
editor of the « Eclectic,' a popular Uterary weekly journal, published 
at Portland. He is a man of fmc talents, a superior teacher, and a 
gentlemen of high standing in private life. He is married, and 
resides in the town of Gorham, where his flourishing school is sit- 
uated. Although a man of abundant talent, he has Ti\Titten nothing 
of any great length by which to acquire a reputation outside of our 
OA^Ti State, except ' A Vision of Immortality,' Avliich, Anth ' Lines 
Avritten at the Falls of the Passaic,' and the ' Two Hands,' we con- 
sider the finest specimens of his poetic talent that we have seen. 



EDWARD P. WESTON. 211 



A VISION OF IMMORTALITY: 

A SEQUEL TO ' THANATOPSIS ' ANT) ' THE HYIVIN TO DEATH.' 

I, WHO essayed to sing in earlier days 
The Thanatopsis and The Hymn to Death, 
Wake now the Hymn to Immortality. 
Yet once again, O man, come forth and view 
The haunts of Nature, — walk the waving fields, 
Enter the silent groves, or pierce again 
The depths of the vintrodden wilderness, 
And she shall teach thee. 

Thou hast learned before 

One lesson ; and her Hymn of Death has fallen 

With melancholy sweetness on thine ear ; 

Yet she shall tell thee with a myriad tongue 

That life is there — life in uncounted forms — 

Stealing in silence through the hidden roots ; 

In every branch that swings ; in the green leaves 

And waving grain, and the gay summer flowers 

That gladden the beholder. Listen now. 

And she shall teach thee that the dead have slept 

But to wake in more glorious forms, — 



212 EDWARD P. WESTON. 

And the mystery of the seed's decay 

Is but the promise of the coming life. 

Each towering oak that lifts its living head 

To the broad sunlight in eternal strength, 

Glories to tell thee that the acorn died. 

The flowers that spring above their last year's grave 

Are eloquent with the voice of life and hope — 

And the green trees clap their rejoicing hands, 

Waving in triumph over the earth's decay ! 

Yet not alone shall flower and forest raise 

The voice of triumph and the hymn of life. 

The insect brood are there ! — each painted wing 

That flutters in the sunshine, broke but now 

From the close cerements of a worm's own shroud, 

Is telling, as it flies, how life may spring 

In its glad beauty from the gloom of death. 

Where the crushed mould beneath the sunken foot 

Seems but the sepulchre of old decay, 

Turn thou a keener glance, and thou shalt find 

The gathered myriads of a mimic world. 

The breath of evening and the sultry morn 

Bears on its wing a cloud of witnesses. 

That earth from her unnumbered caves of death 

Sends forth a mightier tide of teeming life. 

Kaise then the Hymn to Immortality ! 
The broad green prairies and the wilderness. 
And the old cities where the dead have slept 
Age upon age, a thousand graves in one, 
Shall yet be crowded with the living forms 
Of myriads, waking from the silent dust. 



EDWARD P. WESTON. 21 o 

Kings that lay down in state, and earth's poor slaves, 
Resting together in one fond embrace. 
The white-haired patriarch and the tender babe, 
Grown old together in the flight of years, 
They of immortal fame and they whose praise 
Was never sounded in the ears of men, — 
Archon and priest, and the poor common crowd, — 
All the vast concourse in the halls of death I 
Shall waken from the droams of silent years 
To hail the dawn of immortal day. 

Aye, learn the lesson. Though the worm shall be 

Thy brother in the mystery of death ! 

And all shall pass, humble and proud and gay 

Together, to earth's mighty charnel-house, 

Yet the Immortal is thy heritage ! 

The grave shall gather thee ! — Yet thou shalt come. 

Beggar or prince, not as thou wentest forth 

In rags or purple, but arrayed as those 

Whose mortal puts on immortality ! 

Then mourn not when thou markest the decay 
Of Nature, and her solemn hymn of death 
Steals with a note of sadness to thy heart. 
That other voice, with its rejoicing tones, 
Breaks from the mould with every bursting flov\fer. 
' O grave ! thy victory ! ' And thou, O man, 
Burdened with sorrow at the woes that crowd 
Thy narrow heritage, lift up thy head 
In the strong hope of the undying life, 
And shout the Hymn of Immortality. 



214 EDWARD P. WESTON. 

The dear departed that have passed away 
To the still house of death, leaving thine' own, 
The gray-haired sire that died in blessing thee, 
Mother or sweet-lipped babe, or she who gave 
Thy home the light and bloom of Paradise, — 
They shall be thine again, when thou shalt pass 
At God's appointment, through the shadowy vale, 
To reach the sunlight of the immoktal hills. 

And thou that gloriest to lie down Avith kings, 
Thine uncrowned head now lowlier than theirs, 
Seek thou the loftier glory to be known, 
A king and priest to God, — when thou shalt pass 
Forth from the silent halls to take thy place 
With patriarchs and prophets, and the blest 
Gone up from every land to people heaven. 

So live, that when the mighty caravan, 
Which halts one night-time in the vale of Death, 
Shall strike its white tents for the morning march, 
Thou shalt mount onward to the Eternal Hills 
Thy foot unwearied, and thy strengh renewed 
Like the strong eagle's for the upward flight ! 



EDWARD P. WESTON. 215 



LINES 

WRITTEN AT THE F.iLLS OF THE PASSAIC. 

A LONE wayfarer from the northern land 

I press thy dizzy verge, O rushing stream, 

And gaze far down the terrible gorge, where thou 

Art madly plunging, — and my heart is full. 

I have looked down where broader cataracts 

Rush with a hoarser thunder, and have gone 

Bearing but idle images away. 

But thou, O sacred stream, within my heart 

Hast held thy place with unforgotten things, 

Ev'n from the morning light of memory, 

Linked with her name who perished in thy waves. ' 1) 

And now thou givest to my tearful gaze 

A voice of sympathy, that shall henceforth 

Re-echo in my heart, not as a tone 

Of simple and glad beauty, but a voice 

Of majesty, sublime in tenderness ! 

That tale of terror from my mother's lips, 

That quivered telling it, — the fearful plunge 

Down the wild steep to whirling depths below, 

That quenched forever the sweet life of one 

So fair, so beautiful, — the one lone flower 

That breathed its fragrance on a sister's path, — 

How hast thou told it mournfully again 

To the sad listener bending o'er thy brink ! 

I ask thee — and no word is answered — why ? 



216 



EDWAED P. WESTON. 



Why from the bosom of that ancient home 
Went forth its idol and its best beloved, 
A bride but then, — a bridal gift to thee ? (?«) 
Thou answerest not. Ev'n as thou wrappest up 
Thy waters when thou plungest, God hath wrapped 
His providence in clouds, nor gives thee leave 
To unveil the mystery. But as within 
Thy pillared mists, the sunbeam writes itself 
In seven-fold lines of promise and of hope. 
That arch to heaven, so Faith with golden light 
Traces the bow of promise on God's cloud, 
And marks her radiant pathway to the skies. 
And thou, green cedar, waving o'er the brink, {n) 
Planted of God to mark her stepping stone 
From earth to heaven, — O breath perennial 
Thy choicest fragrance on this hallowed air, 
And. wear thy verdurous crown unperishing ; 
Even as her memory liveth, beautiful one, 
Fadeless and fragrant in our heart of hearts. 
And thou, sweet spirit, by this gateway gone, 
Comest thou hither on the viewless wing 
When shadows of the evening fall, as now ? 
My spirit yearneth toward thee, and my song 
Would bear its holiest offering, as is meet 
To such as thou. O chide not if I bring 
More than a stranger's gift ; if in my song 
There breathes the burden of another's heart, 
Stricken with terror in the dreadful hour 
Such tidings came. The voice of eloquence 
That charmed thy willing ear and won thy love. 
And I.ers who blessed thee with maternal care. 
Call thee no longer. 



EDWARD P, WESTON. 217 



THE OCEAN-BUIIIED. 

DoAVN fathoms unnumbered, 

Beneath the dark sea, 
Where thousands have slumbered, 

There slumbereth he. 
Above the cold billow 

No marble may rise. 
Nor cypress, nor willow, 

May tell where he lies. 

Yet hearts have enshrined him, 

And love fondly keeps 
An eye that shall find him. 

Wherever he sleeps. 
The wild waves are tramping, 

The rude tempest blows. 
Yet angels encamping, 

Guard all his repose. 

His rest he is taking, 

'Till glory's bright morn 
Shall bring his awakening — 

Immortality born. 
Then mourn not to leave him, 

Since Mercy hath said, 
' Your faith shall receive him 

Again from the dead,' 



19 



218 



EDWARD P. WESTON. 



■ TO ONE ABSENT. 

Light from these sombre halls, 
Hath gone, dear Mary, with thy sunny smile, 
And the chill presence of a cloud, the while, 

Around me falls. 

Morning in golden streams. 
Pours in upon me from the rising day, — 
But there's no gladness in its brightest ray, 

Without thy beams. 

Evening with lighted lamps, 
To cheer my solitude essays in vain ; 
The falling darkness, like an April rain 

My spirit damps, 

I wait your coming long, 
Wife of my youth, and those dear babes of ours ; 
Welcome your light again within these bowers, 

Welcome your song. 



THINE TILL DEATH. 

They tell me that life hath a stormy sea, 
Dare I trust my bark ou its waves with thee? 
Dare I give thee the hope of a sunny youth, 
And venture my all on thy words of truth? 

They tell me that love is a word for pain, 
For an aching heart and a throbbing brain; 
They tell me that trust is a word for tears, 
For a waking dream of tempestuous fears. 

Yet I hear thee talk— with a pleasant smile, 
And thy dear hand clasping my own the while — 
Of a love that the fondest and truest will be, 
When the dark storm of woe, sweeps over life's sea. 

With thee! with thee! thou hast won the prize, 
I have read thy heart through thy fond blue eyes, 
My soul has drank deep of thy passion breath, 
My spirit is won — I am thine TttL death! 



HARRIET MARION STEPHENS. 

AGE, 31 YEARS. 

Miss Harriet M. Atwell, now knoAvii in the literary world as 
Mrs. H. Marion Stephens, was born on the third day of July, 
1823, and is a daughter of Rev. John Atwell, who has been for 
forty years a prominent minister of the Maine Methodist Conference. 
She was born in the romantic town of Sidney, Kennebec County, upon 
the banks of the Kennebec River. In early youth she left her native 
Sta te, and for many years after resided at the Sovith. It was while 
here that she first began to cultivate her native talent, which, in itself, 
was of no inferior order, and under the simple and modest nom de 
guerre of ' Marion Ward,' she commenced contributing to the ' Phila- 
delphia Saturday Com-ier,' and as her young mind became more and 
more cultivated and enriched, her productions were sought for by 
many of the most jjopular magazines and journals. She was married 
in Charleston, S. C, on the 12th of February, 1848, to Mr. Richard 
Stephens, and during the following year removed to the City of Bos- 
ton, where she has resided the gi'eater portion of her time. She is 
an actress of some cUstinction, and, with her husband, has played a 
number of engagements at many of the principal Theatres in New 
England, although we believe she has retired from the stage for the 
present, if not permanently. Mrs. Stephens was at one time editress 
of the ' The Golden Age,' a monthly magazine, published by Dr. Ayer, 
now local editor of the Boston Chronicle. Since this magazine was 
discontinued, she has been a contributor to a large number of the pe- 
riocUcals, in all parts of the country, devoting her entire attention to 
Hterary matters. At present she writes a great deal for the ' Boston 
Daily Times,' ' Gleason's Pictorial,' and the ' American Union.' In the 
month of January, 1854, she issued, from the press of Fetridge & Co., 
19* 



Boston, ' Home Scene?, and Home Sounds ; or the AVorld from my 
Window;' a volume of three hundred jmges, comprising a collection of 
her best sketches, ' hurry-graphs' and poems. In her preface she very 
frankly says, ' I can't even say I could do better than I have done by 
the odds and ends of this simple volume, for I couldn't. Good or bad, 
these sketches are my bcxt.'' 

Mrs. Stephens has a volume now in press, entitled ' Passion and 
Reality,' to be issued by Fetridge & Co., during the month of November, 
and it promises to add much to her popularity. Her poetry finds 
friends wherever it goes, for it comes to the heart on the wings of 
Love, with whose sweet fragrance it is so highly scented. ' I Love to 
Love,' is a little gem of rare beauty, and found its way into ' Read's 
Female Poets of America,' -with merely the simple name of ' Marion 
"Ward ' attached to it. 

' I LOVE to love,' said a darling pet, 
Whose soul looked out through her eyes of jet, 
And she nestled down like a fondled dove 
And lisped, ' Dear Mamma, how I love to love I' 

' I love to love,' said a maiden bright, 
And her words gushed forth like a stream of light. 
And thrilled to the heart of a suppliant there, 
With a ripple, soft as an angel's praj'er. 

' I love +0 love,' said a new-made-bride, 
As she gazed on the loved one by her side, 
And she clung to his arm in the star lit grove, 
And breathed on his lips, ' How I love to lovel' 

♦ I love to love,' said a mother blest, 
. As her flrst-born lay like a rose on her breast. 

And she thought as she smoothed down its silken hair. 
That nothing on earth could be half so fair. 



And thus, as we sail o'er the ocean of life. 
Love pours out its oil on the desert of strife. 
And swiftly our bark nears the haven above, 
Wide we'vt someth ng to hope for ani something to love. 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 22S 



SONG OF THE IMPROVISATRICE. 

There's a balm on the air, and it drifts along 
Like the fragrant breath of a fairy throng ; 
There's a spell of love on the restless deep, 
And the winds are still, and the waves asleep: 
And the fringed lids of the summer flowers 
Are folded down in their woodland bowers ; 
But their lips are bright with a dewy flush — 
Do they dream of love, through the twilight hush ? 

'Tis night, and the clouds, with their gorgeous dyes, 

Have melted away in the pearl-blue skies ; 

'Tis night, and the moon from her shadowy land 

Has girdled the sea with a silver band ; 

Yet sorrowful strains o'er my bosom sweep, 

Till my heart is full, and my eyes rmist weep ; 

For I miss a voice with its music tone, 

And murmur in sadness, Alone, alone ! 

Alone, all alone ! I am thinking now 

Of a star-bright eye and a noble brow ; 

But I miss kind words, and the dimple smile, 

And a dear hand clasping my own the while. 

' Mine own, mine own ! ' 'Tis a worn-out strain. 

Oft spoken in rapture, oft breathed in disdain ; 

Yet the wildest bliss that the world has known 

Is found in that sentence — ' Mine oion, mine own ! ' 



224: 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 



My soul was dark, and a wild unrest, 
Like a death-shroud, lay on my lonely breast ; 
But the shadow passed, and I knew not how 
Till thy lips were pressed to my burning brow ! 
The mist dissolved, for the night had gone, 
And the beautiful tints of a holy dawn 
Swept over my heart with a mighty change, 
And filled it with melody deep and strange. 

Thou hast gone from me noio, and I will not tell 
Of the wild, wild thoughts which my bosom swell ; 
It would give too much to thy earnest heart — 
Leaving too little for faith to impart ! 
Thy spirit is with me — thou canst not forget — 
Thou'lt think of me ever with saddened regret ; 
Fate may have bereft me — it cannot control, 
For thou art my being — the life of my soul ! 

'Tis night on the mountain — 'tis night on the sea : 
Her star-'broidered mantle drapes forest and lea : 
Bird music is hushed, and the streams are still, 
And the wild leaves throb with a passionate thrill ! 
Sleep on ! — sweetly sleep ! — Be thy dreams as bright 
As thy soul is strong in its power and might ; 
Sleep on — sweetly sleep, nor list to the moan 
Of the minstrel heart, for it weeps alone ! 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 225 



MY GRAVE. 

O ! BiTBY me not in the sunless tomb, 
When Death in its chain has bound me ; 

Let me not sleep where the shadows loom, 
In the stifled air around me ; 

Where the bones of the scarce-remembered dead 

Keep a ghastly watch round my coffin bed ! 

O, bury me not 'mid the ceaseless hum 

Of the city's wild commotion, 
Where the steps of a thoughtless crowd might come, 

Like the waves of a troubled ocean. 
In the eye of love should a tear-drop start, 
'Twould crush it back on the swollen heart ! 

But bury me out in the wild, wild wood, 
Where the sunlit leaves are dancing. 

Where the rills leap out with a merry shout. 
And the brooks in the light are glancing ; 

Let my bed be made by the fond and true. 

Who can bear to weep when I'm shut from view. 

In the forest home — in the wild wood home — 

With the arching limbs above me, 
Where the sunbeams creep for a quiet sleep, 

To my grave, like dear friends that love me, 
Let me rest 'mid the bloom of the pure and fair ; 
I should know that the blossoms I loved were there. 



226 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 



TO ONE AFAR. 

Thou art not here ! The midnight stars are paling 
And drooping one by one from out the sky ! 

The night wind comes to me with wilder wailing, 
As echo of my heart — thou art not by ! 

Yet like the stars my heart and hopes are creeping 

To that dear home where thou, my love, art sleeping. 



Thou'rt all my own ! for, like an angel's blessing. 
Slumber her woof of dreams hath o'er thee thrown ! 

Dost thou not feel my lips to thine now pressing ? 
Art not my arms entwined amid thine own ? 

Ah, blessed sleep ! I too might share it, only 

Thou art not here, and I am more than lonely. 

It may be, dear, that I am only dreaming ; 

But life hath grown more pleasant than of yore ; 
And from thy lips love hath a holier seeming, 

And life more hopes and aims than heretofore : 
It may be, there will come a dark to-morrow, 
And my heart waken to a world of sorrow. 

My spirit moans for thee ! I cannot hush it ! 

Its pleadings haunt the stillness of this hour ! 
My heart is in thy clasp ! Ah, do not crush it 

As a wanton plaything, or an idle flower ! 
Morn may restore the flower, its bloom departed — 
But there's no morning for the broken hearted ! 



H. MARION STEPHENS. 227 



TO A SONGSTRESS. 

I DO not know thee — save by thoughts that linger, 
Dream-like and beautiful upon my heart — 

When my rapt soul, forgetful of the singer, 
Loses itself in wonder at thy art ! 

I do not know thee, lady ; yet full well 

My spirit bows it to thy mystic spell. 

I do not know thee ! yet when stars are beaming 
In softening lustre at the evening hour, 

I seek the spot where thy bright eyes are gleaming, 
And yield me captive to their witching power ! 

To see thee — hear thee — silently to trace 

Flashings of genius on thy lovely face ! 

I do not know thee ! yet my weary spirit 
In hours of absence, kneeling at thy shrine, 

Breathes out a prayer that it may yet inherit 

One gleam of light like that which falls from thine. 

Yet with such gift, my heart, in its excess, 

Would die beneath its wealth of blissfulness ! 

I do not know thee ! yet when flowers are springing, 
When summer song-birds tales of joyance tell, 

I'll think I hear thy voice in concert singing ; 

My heart will grow more human 'neath the spell. 

May thy soul's sunshine, undimmed by tears. 

Brighten the rugged path of onward years ! 



228 H, MAEION STEPHENS. 



FAREWELL. 

Fakewell ! farewell for aye ! 
Not when my heart is aching 'neath the weight 

Of utter loneliness — not when the knell 
Of dying hope comes with its bitter freight 

Of. wordless agony and woe, to tell 
How giant passions, kindled into life. 
Have drooped and perished 'neath the world's cold strife 

Not in such scenes of tumult and unrest, 
Shall thoughts of thee commingle in my breast. 

But when Forgetfulness her watch shall keep, 

With folded wing, by Passion's turbid shore ; 
When o'er my heart sweet memories come like sleep, 

And the soul dreams its strife is haply o'er ; 
Then shall the past gleam out a ray of light ! 

A fairy isle on life's tumultuous sea ! 
Like stars that lit the wasting soul's dark night 

Shall be the memories that still cling to thee. 
Farewell ! farewell for aye ! 



TRUTH, 



Truth will prevail, though men abhor 

The glory of its lisht, 
And wage exterminating war 

And put all foes to flight. 

Though trodden under foot of men, 
Truth from the dust will spring, 

And from the press— the lip — the pen — 
In tones of thunder ring. 

Beware — beware, ye who resist 
The light that beams around, 

Le«t, ere you look through error's mist, 
Truth strikes you to the ground. 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 

AGE, 44 YEAKS. 

D. C. CoLESWOKTHY, is a native of Portland, where he resided 
for nearly forty years. He was born on the fourteenth day of July, 
1810, and at the age of fourteen, entered the office of the Chris- 
tian Mirror, as an apprentice to the printing business. Like many 
other young men of talent, ambition, and perseverance, he educated 
himself, and graduated from the printing office with distinguished honor 
to the craft. In 1830 he commenced the publication of a ' Youth's 
Paper' at Portland, and continued it until 1835. After a lapse of five 
years he started the ' Portland Tribune,' a Uterary weekly, to which 
John Neal, William Cutter, Mrs. E. Oakes Smith, S. B. Beckett, and 
others, were contributors. While echting this journal Mr. Coleswor- 
thy became known by his brother typos from Maine to Georgia, and 
his articles were copied more than those of any editor in the comitry. 
They were characterized by simpHcity, earnestness, and bore the sign 
of truth and virtue in every line. EUhu Burritt, the learned Black- 
smith, in an article upon Mr. Colesvv'orthy's Hterary productions, writes 
thus : — 

'No one of our acquaintance has contributed to the great circulat- 
ing medium of the press, more terse, pleasant, cheering-up articles 
for the yoimg. just lamiching out upon the uucertain sea of life, and 
for those who, like Peter, were well-nigh suiking beneath its surges. 
Not a paper, from Maine to Missouri, comes to our hands, which does 
not contain one of his beautiful articles, of energetic brevity and robust 
humor and humanity. Who can tell how many thousands of falter- 
ing hearts and trembling, pendent hands have been strung to new 
hope and eifort by his cheering words. The bright-eyed genius of his 
poetry looks hope-ward and heaven-ward, beckoning the orphan, the 



232 DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY.. 

heart-broken and the homeless to a home and a heaven m the heart 
of God and hmnanity ; wreatliing every lowering cloud with a rain- 
bow of promise, unveiling an angel's wing in every rift of the scowling 
tempest.' 

He has -nTitten numerous little poems fiiU of tenderness and 
overflowing with simpUcity and grace, which have found a welcome 
in every heart possessed of the finer feelings of our nature. Who can 
read the following beautiful little gem of his, and not feel that it has 
brought home a lesson of truth to his heart, one that he has never be- 
fore heeded, because it did not come to him, as now, clothed in a 
smiling sunbeam of thought that melted its way into the coldness of 
his heart's chambers. 

A little word in kindness spoken, 

A motion or a tear, 
Has often healed the heart that's broken, 

And made a friend sincere. 

A word— a look — has crushed to earth 

Full many a budding flower, 
"Which, had a smile but owned its birth, 

Would bless life's darkest hour. 

Then deem it not an idle thing, 

A pleasant word to speak; 
The face you wear, the thoughts you bring, 

A heart may heal or break. 

Mr. Colesworthy has been engaged in the book business for the 
past twenty years, fifteen of wliich were passed in Portland, the re- 
mainder in the city of Boston, to which he removed in 1849, and 
where he still resides, devoting his time almost entii'ely to mercantile 
pursuits. 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 233 



YOUR BROTHER. 

Turn not from your brother 

Who strangely has err'cl, 
Nor speak as in anger 

A harsh, bitter word : 
In kindness approach him — 

With tenderness speak — 
If vic'ous, be gentle — 

Support him, if weak. 

Kind words and compassion ! 

Sure weapons to save 
The fallen and erring, 

And snatch from the grave. 
Ye all have the power. 

Though humble and poor. 
These weapons to use 

And the lost to restore. 

Go then to your brother 

Just turning away 
From wisdom and virtue. 

And be his strong stay. 
No moment is wasted. 

No words are in vain. 
When the lost and the erring 

To virtue you gain. 



20* 



234 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 



O^E DEED OF KINDNESS. 

One deed of kindness every day 

Be earnest to perform ; 
One mite give to the poor away — 

One shelter from the storm. 



One word of comfort speak to him 
Whose brow is dark with care ; 

One smile for her whose eyes are dim 
By sickness or despair. 

One look of kind compassion give — 

One motion or a sigh ; 
One breath to bid the dying live — 

One prayer to God on high. 

What joy one moment may impart, 

If it is spent aright ! 
One moment saves the broken heart 

And puts despair to flight. 

All can bestow most precious gifts — 
The weak, the low, the poor ; 

The feeling heart from sorrow lifts 
To Heaven's wide-open door. 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 235 



DON'T KILL THE BIRDS. 

Don't kill the birds — the little birds 

That sing about your door, 
Soon as the joyous spring has come, 

And chilling storms are o'er, 
The little birds, how sweet they sing ! 

O, let them joyous live ; 
And never seek to take the life 

Which you can never give. 

Don't kill the birds — the little birds 

That play among the trees ; 
'Twould make the earth a cheerless place. 

Should we dispense with these. 
The little birds, how fond they play ! 

Do not disturb their sport ; 
But let them warble forth their songs, 

Till winter cuts them short. 

Don't kill the birds — the happy birds 

That bless the field and grove ; 
So innocent to look upon. 

They claim oar warmest love. 
The happy birds — the tuneful birds, 

How pleasant 'tis to see ; 
No spot can be a cheei'less place 

Where'er their presence be. 



236 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 



BE NOT DISCOURAGED. 

Be never discouraged — 

Look up and look on ; 
When the prospect is darkest 

The cloud is withdrawn : 
The shadows that blacken 

The earth and the sky, 
Speak to the strong-hearted, 

Salvation is nigh. 

Be never discouraged — 

Mock, mock at the tears 
That fall in your pathway, 

And laugh at the fears 
That sometimes will darken 

The sunniest face ; 
Push on and be foremost 

In the van of the race. 



Be never discouraged — 

The heart that will quail 
And sink at a spectre, 

How can it prevail ? 
From morning till sunset 

'Tis cheerless and still. 
As the shadows that slumber 

On the bleak, icy hill. 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. . 237 

Be never discouraged — 

The true and the wise, 
While others are waiting. 

Secure the rich prize : 
No object of terror, 

No word of alarm. 
Shall hinder their progress, 

Or stay the strong arm. 

Be never discouraged, 

If you would secure 
The earth's richest blessings 

And make heaven sure, 
Yield not in the battle, 

Nor quail in the blast ; 
The brave and unyielding 

Win nobly at last. 

Be never discouraged — 

By day and by night 
Have glory in prospect 

And wisdom in sight ; 
Undaunted and faithful, 

You never will fail. 
Though kingdoms oppose you 

And devils assail. 



238 



DANIEL C. COLESWORTHY. 



LET US DO GOOD. 

Let us do good. How sweet the thought, 
We have the wretched blest — 

Threw smiles upon a clouded brow, 
And sunshine in the breast I 

To know we've dried a single tear, 
And made one moment bright — 

Or struck a feeble spark to cheer 
The darkest hour of night — 



Will give to us more joy at last 
Than Caesar's triumphs gave ; 

The memory of such deeds will live 
In worlds beyond the grave. 

Then in the little sphere we move, 
Let kindness touch the heart ; 

While every word shall lead to love 
And happiness impart. 



TRUE FAME 



SUGGESTED BY CHANTRY's STATUE OF WASHINGTON. 



Who hath not hoped for immortality? 
And what is immortality ?— to be 
Awhile remembered, wlieu Ibe heart is cold, 
And o'er the nerveless hand liatb crept the mould 
Of the damp sepulchre? to be heralded 
By the loud trump of Fame, when life hath fled, 
Until even its echo hath gone past 
And perished in the abyss of ages ? No! 
It is to live while memory shall last, 
Shrined deep within the heart -the ceaseless flow 
Of centuries only adding to the sum 
Of the world's gratitude! 'tis to become 
The embodied soul of genius! — such a one, 
As the eye gazeth on— even Washikgton. 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 

Hon. William G. Crosby, the present Whig Governor of 
this State, is a native of the city of Belfast, where he now resides, 
engaged in the practice of law. He is an alumnus of Bowdoin College 
and one of the ' Bowdoin Poets,' spoken of in our sketch of Mr. Weston. 
While a member of this institution he devoted himself quite success- 
fully to the Muses, and we believe published a small volume of poems, 
although he writes us that he never meets any of his old productions 
Avithout a strong desire to disclaim their authorship, and cast them 
into oblivion. Notwithstanding this, we feel obliged, owing to the 
superior merit of his poetry, and the prominent positions which he has 
occupied in the literary world, to place him among the Native Poets 
of Maine. Of late years, he has written but very little, and that prose, 
although his poetry is of a higher order, and is better calculated to 
show the true character and depth of his talent. 

The works to which Mr. Crosby contributed, w-hen devoting his 
unoccupied moments to literary recreation, were of the most popular 
land then published. Among others, were ' The Token,' a Boston 
Annual, edited by Nathaniel P. Willis, and other distinguished literary 
nien. ' The Legendary,' a work illustrating scenes, manners, and 
legends of our country, and of which we have alluded to more fully in 
our other sketches ; and the ' Bowdoin Poets.' He is introduced into 
' Specimens of American Poetry,' a work in three volumes, edited by 
Samuel Kettell, and published by S. G. Goodrich & Co., Boston, in 
1829. In the 'Biographical Sketch,' of a few lines only, the editor 
introduces him as ' the author of Poetical Illustrations of the Atheneum 
Gallery, besides various other performances in verse.' The poem 
21 



242 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 



given in that work as a specimen of Mr. Crosby's poetry ,-was one 
entitled, ' To a Lady, ydth a Withered Leaf,' -which we have included 
in this volume. 

For several years Mr. Crosby has been engaged in political matters, 
and filled several offices of importance and trust connected with the 
affairs of State and public movements. It cannot be expected that a 
man, however gifted and hoAvever highly and delicately cultivated his 
mind may be, who goes into the arena of political strife, amid its calum- 
nies, intrigues, and debasing influences, can retain, to any honorable 
extent a companionship with the Muse. A man whose mind has been 
cultivated, as his has been, should find a sphere of greater usefiihiess 
far removed from such scenes, where he could do honor to himself, to 
his friends, and to the noble gifts which nature has endowed liim with. 
How much happier, and more peacefully would his pathway down the 
slope of decHning years be made, and how much more calmly and 
resignedly would he' go down into his grave, over wliich the voice of 
calumny, enmity, and political -wTongs would never be breathed. 



WILLIAM G. CEOSBY. 243 



TELLING THE DREAM. 

'Tis a most beauteous niglit ! lanthe, come ! 
"Wilt thou walk forth ? Oh ! I am sick at heart 
Of this gay revelry. Its busy hum 
Falls heavy on mine ear. I cannot laugh 
With these light-hearted laughers, and mine eye 
Is wearied with gazing, Let me fling 
Thy mantle round thee. 

Is't not beautiful ! 
The radiance of this starry sky ? How pale, 
And lustreless are all we've left behind, 
Compared with its bright jewelry ! Perchance 
Chaste Dian holds her festival to-night. 
See, how she smiles ! On such an eve as this, 
So runs the tale, she left her home in heaven, 
Lured thence to meet upon the Latmian hill 
Her shepherd boy, and placed upon his lips 
The kiss of immortality ! Poor youth ! 
He only dreamed of bliss. On such a night, 
The love-crazed Sappho poured her latest song 
Upon Leucate's height, and swan-like died. 
She dreamed — but dreamed too madly ! And, perchance. 
On such a night, the Roman Antony 
Threw off the crown and purple, and gave up 



244 



"WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 



Glory, dominion — for a wanton's smile ! 
He was a dreaming madman — was he not, 
lanthe, thus to fling his all away, 
For woman's smile ? 

Come, rest within this bower, 
And I will tell thee, though thy lips may chide, 
And call me ' Dreaming Boy.' Yes, I have dreamed — 
Perchance am dreaming now ; but thou shalt hear : 

I had lain down to slumber on a bank 
Sprinkled with violets. The plaintive moan 
Of far-off waters, mingling with the hum 
Of thousand busy insects, gathering in 
Each its own store of sweets, filling the air 
With melody, spread its sweet influence 
O'er my lulled senses, and methought that I 
"Was wandering here, with thee ! 'Twas strange, lanthe ! 
But then the time, the place, so like to this, 
I cannot but remember. 'Twas a night 
Like this, save that it wore the loveliness 
And richness of a dream o'er all its charms. 
The sporting moonbeams twined themselves around 
The leaves and branches of the overhanging trees. 
Like ivy round the mouldering monument — 
Half seen, half hid — and from their azure depths, 
The stars were looking out with eyes that watch 
O'er Nature's slumbering. We had left the hall 
To lighter hearts, and arm in arm had strayed 
Through the long winding mazes of the grove. 
Until, at length, we reached this bower. One beam 
Of moonlight, streaming through its trellised roof, 
Fell on thy cheek ; methought it never looked 



WILLIAM G. CKOSBY. 245 

One half so lovely — and, indeed, till now, 

It never did, lanthe ! And then I — 

Strange, that my brain should dream what my tongue fears 

To utter even now ! 'Twas but a dream, 

However, and the masquers are not gone. 

So I'll e'en finish it — well then, methought, 

I told thee, though 'twas in a whispered breath, 

And softer than the night wind's gentlest sigh. 

How I did love — that was the word — did love, 

And even worship thee ! And then I swore. 

By Venus, and the starry train above — 

By thy bright eyes, which did outrival them — 

By all love's fond remembrances, that I 

Would guard and cherish thee, wouldst thou but be 

My own, my own lanthe ! And then — then — 

Heed not my passionate dreaming — I did seal 

My vow upon thy lips ; and then I watched 

To see them open, and to hear thy voice. 

Steal forth in gentle murmuring, like the tone 

Of a sigh that hath found utterance. Then I twined 

Mine arm around thee — thus ; and placed thy cheek 

Upon my boscm — thus ; and bade thee tell, 

Though 'twere but with a glance, or place thy heart 

Upon thy lips, and breathe it in a kiss, 

If I might dare to love ; and then thine eyes 

Peered up through their dark lashes, with a look 

So tender, yet so melancholy, and 

Thy lips parted with a sigh — and then — 

And then — 

Do dreams always prove true, lanthe ? 



21^ 



2i6 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 



THE LAST LEAF. 

Lone trembling one ! 
Last of a summer race, withered and sear, 
And shivering — wherefore art thou lingering here ? 

Thy work is done. 

Thou hast seen all 
The summer flowers reposing in their tomb, 
And the green leaves, that knew thee in their bloom, 

Wither and fall ! 

The voice of Spring, 
Which called thee into being, ne'er again 
Will greet thee — nor the gentle Summer rain 

New verdure bring. 

The Zephyr's breath 
No more will wake for thee its melody — 
But the lone sighing of the blast shall be 

Thy hymn of death. 



Yet a few days, 
A few faint struggles with the Autumn storm. 
And the strained eye, to catch thy quivering form. 

In vain may gaze. 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 



247 



Pale Autumn leaf ! 
Thou art an emblem of mortality. 
The broken heart, once young and fresh like thee, 

Withered by grief, — 

Whose leaves are fled, 
Whose loved ones all have drooped and died away, 
Still clings to life — and lingering, loves to stay 

Above the dead ! 



But list — even now 
I hear the gathering of the wintry blast ; 
It comes — thy frail form trembles — it is past ! 

And so art thou. 



24:8 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY. 



TO A LADY, 

WITH A WITHERED LEAF. 

What offering can the minstrel bring, 
To cast upon affection's shrine ? 

'Twas hard thy magic spells to fling 
O'er the fond heart already thine ! 

Thou wouldst not prize the glittering gem, 
Thou wouldst but cast the pearl away ; 

For thine is now a diadem, 

Of lustre brighter far than they. 

I will not bring the spring-tide flower. 

Reposing on its gentle leaf ; 
Its memory lives but for an hour — 

I would not thine should be as brief. 



My heart ! — but that has long been thine 
'Twere but a worthless offering ; 

The ruin of a rifled shrine, 

A flower that fast is withering. 



WILLIAM G. CROSBY, 249 

My song ! — 'tis but a mournful strain, 

So deep in sorrow's mantle clad, 
E'en echo will not wake again 

The music of a strain so sad. 

A wilher'd leaf ! — nay, scorn it not, 

Nor deem it all unworthy thee ; 
It grew upon a hallow'd spot. 

And sacred is its memory. 

I pluck'd it from a lonely bough, 

That hung above my mother s grave, 

And felt, e'en then, that none but thou 
Could'st prize the gift affection gave. 

She .faded with the flowers of spring. 
That o'er her lifeless form was cast, — 

And when I pluck'd this faded thing, 
'Twas shivering in the autumn blast. 

'Twas the last one ! — all — all were gone, 
They bloom'd not where the yew trees wave ; 

This leaf and I were left alone. 

Pale watchers o'er my mother's grave. 

I mark'd it, when full oft I sought 

That spot so dear to memory ; 
I loved it — for I fondly thought. 

It linger'd there to mourn with me ! 



250 



WILLIAM G. CKOSBY. 



I've moisten'd it with many a tear, 
I've hallow'd it with many a prayer : 

And while this bursting heart was clear 
From guilt's dark stain, I shrined it there. 

Now, lady, now the gift is thine ! 

Oh, guard it with a vestal's care ; 
Make but thine angel heart its shrine, 

And I will kneel and worship there ! 



»!9| 



STANZAS. 

TO ONE WHO SENT ME A WITHERED LEAF. 



Take back your leaf again — 
Why make the tear-drop start; 

Why plant tliis weary pain 
Like dag;;ers in my heart? 

Take back your leaf again, — 
Why drain my drop ot bliss; 

Why madden up my brain 
With such a type as this? 

I knew our joys had fled, 
I knew your faith was brief; 

I knew my love was dead, — 
Dead like this withered leaf. 



DAVID BARKER. 

AGE, 37 YEARS. 

David Bakker, Esq., was born in the town of Exeter, on the 
ninth day of September, 1846. He commenced life a poor boj-, with 
only such advantages for an education as were afforded by small coun- 
try to-niis, at that time, in theii- pubHc schools, yet with the same in- 
domitable and praiseworthy self-exertion and perseverance that have 
marked his later years, he devoted himself to a com-se of self-educa- 
tion, and by a thorough and arduous research, acquii-ed what was then 
considered a superior education. Slowly, but surely, he worked his way 
along — learning a Uttle here, and earning a little there — until he 
became a law student in the office of the Hon. Samuel Cony, who 
was then in practice at Exeter. Mr. Barker pursued the study 
of law until his course was finished, and then, in order to be able to 
commence the practice of it, taught school for a few years, by which 
occupation he acquired means enough to open an office in his native 
town, wlilch he did in 1844, and has since remamed there, practicing 
as much as his health would admit. Many of his poems are but a true 
index to the character of their author, and come from his heart, 
spontaneously, like the gusliing forth of water from a spring ; among 
these are ' Try Again,' ' Solace for Dark Hours,' and ' Make Your 
iSIark ; ' which possess true every-day-life poetrj', and find an echo in 
every enterprising breast. 

]\Ir. Barker is a man of feeble health, although \'igorous in mind, 
and one whose life has been full of bodily sufi'ering, which has pre- 
vented him from engaging extensively in active business life. Tliis, 
with the hardships and Irlals through Avhich he has fought liis way up 
the rugged path of Kfe, reflect the liighest credit upon his talent, 
energy, and indomitable perseverance, which have been fostered by no 
encouraging mfluence or wealth, but by hard struggling and poverty. 
22 



254 



DAVm BARKER. 



TRY AGAIN. 



Should your cherish'd purpose fail, 
Never falter, swerve, nor quail ; 
Nerve the arm and raise the hand, 
Fling the outer garments by, 
With a dauntless courage stand, 
Shouting forth the battle cry ! 

Try again ! 
Is your spirit bowed by grief, 
Rally quick, for life is brief; 
Every saint in yonder sphere. 
Borne through tribulation here, 
Whispers in the anxious ear 
Of each mortal in despair, 

Try again ! 
What though stricken to the earth. 
Up, man, as from a second birth ; 
Yonder flower beneath the tread, 
Struggling when the foot has gone. 
Rising feebly in its bed. 
Tells the hopeless looker-on, 

Try again ! 
Guided by the hand of Right, 
With Hope's taper for a light, 
With a destiny like ours, 
And that destiny to choose ; 
With such God-created powers, 
And a heaven to gain or lose, 

Try again. 



DAVID BAKKEE,. 255 



A SOLACE FOR DARK HOURS. 

A PUKLiNG rill — so small and weak — 

Once nearly died vipon its way, 
While running round the sea to seek, 

Upon a summer's day. 
But soon a cloud hung o'er that rill, 

And soon came down an autumn rain. 
When quick it danced by vale and hill 

Restored to strength again. 

So pilgrim, though your sky should lower, 

Though sorrow's storms should come at length, 
Yet God may clothe that storm with power 

To give you strength. 
It is not best that all should live 

'Mid peaceful gales — 'neath sunny skies, 
For cloud and tempest often give 

Rich blessings in disguise. 

The seaman's bark, whose bellied sail 

The storm has drenched and wind has fill'd. 
To reach its destined port might fail 

If storm and wind were still'd. 
And thus our barks may quicker find. 

Though long of angry waves the sport, 
Though dashed ahead by storm and wind, 

A final, peaceful port. 



256 



DA^^D BAEKER. 



The smoi;ldcring coals that underneath 

Some cumbrous pile have calmly lain, 
Might fire the world if fanned by breath 

Of passing hurricane. 
And brother, now perhaps thou hast, 

Deep buried 'neath plebeian name, 
A fire, which, touched by sorrow's blast, 

May kindle into flame. 



The rust that creeps o'er warrior's blade, 

"When peace can sleep without alarms, 
Is seen no more Avhen shout is made, 

' To arms ! the foe ! to arms ! ' 
And thus a readiness for strife, 

For action in this world of fight. 
May both protect the spirit's life. 

And keep its weapons bright. 

Fear not the man of wealth and birth, 

Securely resting in his seat. 
But sooner him, who, dashed to earth, 

Is rising to his feet. 
From straightened bow the arrow'd spear 

By warrior's arm is never sent, 
The danger which you have to fear 

Comes when that bow is bent. 



n 



THE ONE TALENT. 

' TO EVERY MAN ACCORDING TO HIS SEVERAL ABILITY.' 

Hide not thy talent in the earth ; — 

However small it be, 
Its faithful use, its utmost worth, 

God will require of thee. 

The humblest service rendered here 

He will as truly own. 
As Paul's, in his exalted sphere, 

Or Gabriel's, near the throne. 



The cup of water kindly given, 
The widow's cheerful mites. 

Are worthier, in the eye of heaven, 
Than pride's most costly rites. 

His own, which He hath lent on trust, 

He asks ol thee again; 
Little or much, the claim is just, 

And thine excuses vain. 

Go then, and strive to do thy part — 

Though humble it may be. 
The ready hand, the willing heart, 

Are all heaven asks of thee. 



1 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 

AGE, 52 TEAKS, 

William Cutter is a son of the Hon. Levi Cutter, of Porthnd, 
and a native of the town of North Yarmouth, although his early years 
were spent in the city of Portland, where his parents removed wliile 
he was quite young. He was born some time during the year of 1802. 
He graduated from Bowdom College, and for a short time studied The- 
ology at the Andover Theolog'cal Seminary, but owing to ill health 
reHnquished it, and, returning to Portland, engaged in mercantile 
pursuits. Wliile here he contributed largely to many of the leading 
magazines in Boston, New York, and Philadelpliia, also to the ' Port- 
land Tribune,' a Hterary weekly, and at that time became very widely 
known as a periodical writer. Several of his articles appeared in the 
'Token,' a Boston Annual, 'The Legendary,' the ' Bowdoin Poets,' 
and ' Portland Sketch Book.' In 1846, he pubUshed a life of Putnam, 
and three years after, a life of Lafayette, both of which have recently 
been issued in splendid style by a New York publishing house. For 
the past ten years Mr. Cutter has been engaged in mercantile pursuits 
in New York, and devotes himself less frequently than in former years 
to literary matters. He is the author of those lines so often quoted, 
and so full of truth and wisdom. 

What if the little rain should say, 

' So small a drop as I 
Can ne'er refresli the thirsty earth, 

I'll tarry in the sky.' 

What if a shining beam of noon 

Should in its fountain stay, 
Because its feeble lisht alone 
Is not enough for day I 

Doth not each rain-drop help to form 

The cool refreshincf shower? 
And every ray of light to warm 

And beautify the flower ? 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 



THE VALLEY OF SILENCE. 

It was a perfect Eden for beauty. The pcent of flowers came up on the gale, 
the swift stream sparkled like a flow of diamonds in the sun, and a smile of soft 
light glistened on every leaf and blade, as they drank in the life-giving ray. 
Its significant loveliness was eloquent to the eye, and the heart; but a strange 
deep silence reigned over it all. So perfect was the unearthly hush, you 
could almost hear yourself think. Katahdin. 

Has thy foot ever trod that silent dell ? — 
'Tis a place for the voiceless thought to swell, 
And the eloquent song to go up unspoken, 
Like the incense of flowers whose urns are broken ; 
And the unveiled heart may look in and see. 
In that deep, strange silence, its motions free, 
And learn how the pure in spirit feel 
That unseen Presence to which they kneel. 

No sound goes up from the quivering trees. 

When they spread their arms to the welcome breeze. 

They wave in the zephyr, they bow to the blast, 

But they breathed not a word of the power that pass'd ; 

And their leaves come down on the turf and the stream, 

With as noiseless a fall as the step of a dream ; 

And the breath that is bending the grass and the flowers, 

Moves o'er them as lightly as evening hours. 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 261 

The merry bird lights down on that dell, 

And hushing his breath, lest the song should swell, 

Sits with folded wing, in the balmy shade, 

Like a musical thought in the soul unsaid ; 

And they of strong pinion and lofter flight 

Pass over that valley, like clouds in the night — 

They move not a wing in that solemn sky, 

But sail in a reverent silence by. 

The deer in his flight has passed that way, 

And felt the deep spell's mysterious sway — 

He hears not the rush of the path he cleaves, 

Nor his bounding step on the trampled leaves. 

The hare goes up on that sunny hill — 

And the footsteps of morning are not more still. 

And the wild, and the fierce, and the mighty are there — 

Unheard in the hush of that slumbering air. 

The stream rolls down in that valley serene, 
Content in its beautiful flow to be seen ; 
And its fresh, flowry banks and its pebbly bed 
Were never yet told of its fountain-head. 
And it still rushes on — but they ask not why ; 
With its smiles of light it is hurrying by ; 
Still gliding or leaping, unwhispered, unsung. 
Like the flow of bright fancies it flashes along. 

The wind sweeps by, and the leaves are stirred, 
But never a whisper or sigh is heard ; 
And when its strong rush laid low the oak, 
Not a murmur the eloquent stillness broke ; 



262 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 



And the gay young echoes, those mockers that lie 
In the dark mountain sides, make no reply ; 
But hushed in their caves, they are listening still 
For the songs of that valley to burst o'er the hill. 



I love society ; I am o'erblest to hear 

The mingling voices of a world ; mine ear 

Drinks in their music with a spiritual taste ; 

I love companionship on life's gray waste, 

And might not live unheard ; — yet that still vale ■ 

It had no fearful mystery in its tale — 

Its hush was grand, not awful — as if there 

The voice of nature were a breathing prayer. 

'Twas like a holy temple, where the pure 

Might join in their hushed worship, and be sure 

No sound of earth could come — a soul kept still, 

In faith's unanswering meekness, for Heaven's will ■ 

Its eloquent thoughts sent upward and abroad, 

But all its deep, hushed voices kept for God ! 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 263 



WHO IS MY NEIGHBOR? 

Thy neighbor ? It is he whom thou 
Hast power to aid and bless — 

Whose aching heart and burning brow 
Thy soothing hand may press. 

Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the fainting poor, 
Whose eye with want is dim — 

Whom hunger sends from door to door- 
Go thou and succor him. 

Thy neighbor ? 'Tis that weary man, 
Whose years are at their brim — 

Bent low with sickness, care and pain - 
Go thou and comfort him. 

Thy neighbor ? 'Tis the heart bereft 

Of every earthly gem ; 
Widow and orphan helpless left — 

Go thou and shelter them. 

Thy neighbor ? Yonder toiling slave, 
Fettered in thought and limb — 

Whose hopes are all beyond the grave - 
Go thou and ransom him. 



264 WILLIAM CUTTER. 



Where'er thou meet'st a human form 
Less favored than thy own, 

Remember 'tis thy neighbor worm, 
Thy brother or thy son. 

Oh, pass not, pass not heedless by, 
Perhaps thou canst redeem 

The breaking heart from misery — 
Go, share thy lot with him. 



THE BRIDAL. 

If health be firm — if friends be true — 
If self be well controlled — 

If tastes be pure — if wants be few, 
And not too often told, — 

If reason always rule the heart. 
And passion own its sway — 

If love, for aye, to life impart 
The zest it gives to-day, — 

If Providence, with parent care, 

Mete out the varying lot, 
While meek contentment bows to share 

The palace or the cot, — 

And ah ! if Faith sublime and clear. 

The spirit upward guide — 
Then blest indeed, and blest fore'er. 

The Bridegroom and the Bride ! 



FATHER RALLE'S SOLILOQUY 

AN EXTKACT FROM CAKABASSET. 

Poor children of the forest! thanks to Heaven, 
Here ye can rest your weary limbs at last, 
Kor fear surprise. May all be calm within — 
Calm as the noble stream that sweeps around 
Your humble habitations. Oh! how still 
And solemn is the hour. So lightly falls 
The foostep on this moss, 'twould scarce be heard, 
Were it not strewn with Autumn's dying leaves : 
Fit emblems of our fate! a moment fan', 
And fresh, and fragrant, and then — low in dust. 
Hark! 'tis the howling of the famished wolf 
Suufl'ing the track of some tall antler'd moose, 
As he goes down to bathe him in the waters; 
He's ever on the watch, nor tires of blood, 
And so is man, when left unto himself, 
Unciviliz'd, with passions uncontrolled, 
Knowing no law but arbitrary will. 
And render'd desperate by persecution. 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 

This gentleman is a native of Portland, where he has resided 
the larger portion of his Hfe, and a son of the late James Deering, 
Esq., -who was one of the wealthiest and most influential of its citi- 
zens. He was educated at Harvard University, and like men of wealth 
at that period, devoted himself to literary pursuits merely as a source 
of recreation and cultivation of the mind. Although but Uttle known 
at the present time as a literary character, he formerly occupied a liigh 
position among the ' Portland Writers' m the ' good old days' of Neal, 
Davies, Cutter, Mellen, Beckett, Colesworthy and others, who figured 
quite prominently before the reading pubUc. The longest of Mr. 
Deering's poetical productions, is. Me believe, a dramatic poem of fifty 
pages, entitled ' Carabasset ; a Tragedy in Five Acts,' wliich was 
published in 1830. Tliis poem is founded upon events connected with 
the visit of the EngHsh to Norridgewok, in 1724, and the death of 
Father Ralle, a French Priest, whose history is ■\jell known to the 
citizens of our State. It contains many passages of more than orchnary 
merit, and taken as a whole does credit to the talent of its author. 
Throughout the entire poem the reader discovers a careful finish, a 
purity of thought and expression, which make it more readable and 
place it on a higher scale as a Hterary composition. In the closing 
scene, where Carabasset, the Chief of the Norridgewoks — who are 
supposed to be all killed in the engagement — rather than be taken 
prisoner, thus valiantly defies their power, and then leaps into the 
cataract below. 

Advance, and I will liurl ye from this cliff 
Into the gulph that yawns beneath. Behold 
The last of all the jS'oiridgewoks— a race 



268 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 



Who die in battle. Cowards, do ye think 
That Carabasset, he who led them on, 
In many a bloody conflict, would submit 
To the vile cords that ye would bind him with? 
Keturn, return and tell your masters this — 
Tell them he scorned to be the sport of slaves; 
Of those whom he had trampled on — of those 
Whom he had dragged as captives — ay, of those 
Whose lips do quiver when they mention him. 
Go, tell them this. 

Tell them that thus a Norridgewok hath liv'd, 
And thus — can die. 

Since the publication of this tragedy we beheve Mv. Deering has 
issued anothei" poem of nearly the same length, but of Avhat character 
■we do not know, as it is long since out of print. His fugitive poems, 
contributed to the ' Lady's Book', ' Portland Tribime,' and other 
magazines and jom'nals, were characterized, like his longer ones, by the 
same careful finish, and freedom fi-om the overstramed expression 
which destroys the beauty of so much of our otherwise exalted poe- 
try. He wrote some years ago a parody on Longfellow's ' Wreck of 
the Hesperus,' which was somewhat popular, although a kind of poetry 
not calculated to add much to an author's true merit. 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 



269 



THE GRAVE. 

Mark this lowly mound 

Where the rank weeds wave ; 
Mortal, thou art bound 

Hither — 'tis the grave ! 
Though no sculptured stone 

Now the tale reveals ; 
Yet, a spirit tone 

From beneath it steals. 

Listen ! it declares 

' Here the weary rest ; ' 
That its tenant fares 

As a bidden guest. 
As a guest assured 

Of a welcome there ; 
Free from toils endured — 

Sorrow, want and care. 



23* 



Where the wanderer knows 
That his goal is won ; 

Where he can repose 
Now his task is done. 



270 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 



Where the broken heart 
Checks its bitter moan : 

Where affliction's smart 
Ceases — and is gone. 



Where the slave is free ! 

Where the galling chain 
And the lash will be 

Heeded not again. 
Where vice fails to wrong, 

And its reign is o'er : 
Where friends, parted long. 

Meet, to part no more. 

Welcome, peaceful bed ! 

When our lamps expire, 
Though no tear be shed, 

Though no tuneful choir 
Chant in mournful strains 

While round our bier ; 
Yet a rest remains 

Long denied us here. 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 



271 



THE HARP. 

Oh, leave the Harp, in pity leave! 

To none it yields its thrilling tone, 
Since she who woke its note at eve, 

Reposes 'neath the dark grey stone. 

A seraph's voice was hers who hung 
So fondly o'er the trembling string, 

And mournful was the strain she sung, 
That oft the silent tear would bring. 

For sad the story of her woes — 

The child of sorrow from her birth — 

Nor wonder at the song she chose — 
A requiem to departed worth. 

Yet from those lips no murmur came ; 

'Twas praise to that all gracious Power, 
Whose arm upheld her wasted frame, 

And guarded in the adverse hour. 

That voice is hushed — yet in the glade, 
When the soft night-wind passes by. 

That Harp, as if by spirits played. 
Will breathe its sweetest melody. 



272 



NATHANIEL DEERING. 



As if the one to memory dear 

Had left awhile the world of bliss, 

And touched the magic chords to cheer 
The hearts of those she knew in this. 



Then let the Harp in silence rest, 
No hand can wake its thrilling tone. 

Since she who loved its music best, 
Reposes 'neath the dark grey stone. 



274 



SYLVESTER B. BECKETT. 



SYLVESTER B. BECKETT. 

Sylvester B. Beckett is a native of Portland, in which City 
he was born during the month of May, 1812. ' At an early age he 
became an apprentice to the printing liusiness in the office of the 
Christian IMirror, a weekly paper, ]niblished in that City, and devoted 
to Ilcligion. After ser\ing his apprenticeship he remained as a com- 
l)ositor in the office, and having been endowed by nature with pro- 
mising native talent, devoted his spare moments to literary matters, 
contributing to various journals and magazines. He was for some 
time connected with hisfriend Colesworthy,as editor of the 'Portland 
Tribune,' after that gentleman had dis])osed of his interest in it as 
publisher. Subsequent to this Mr. Beckett had been a regular 
contributor to its columns. He still resides in liis native City. 



0, LADY ! SING THAT SONG AGAIN ! 

O, lady ! sing that song again ; 

Sweet visions of tlie past 
Are wakened at the plaintive strain — 

Sing on and bid them last! 
Thou hast the voice of one who sleeps 

Beneath tlie willow tree, 
Who oft in by gone happy hours, 

Hath tuned those notes for me. 

Tliey bring to mind the home of youth. 

Beneath the old oak's shade, 
Each breezy slope, each rock and tree, 

Each darksome forest-glade ; 
And forms familiar rise to view, 

To whom my heart would cling, 
All clothed with beauty, gladness, youth, 
Sing on, kind lady, singl 

Sad was the day when I went forth — 

And death came in my stead, 
And they arc scattered through the world, 

Or in their ' narrow bed ;' 
But as I listen to thy voice, 

In fancy blest I roam, 
Amidst the green and peaceful scenes 

Of my forsaken home! 



Owing to an unfortunate accident, which occurred at this portion 
of our Avork, Ave are obliged to curtail our selections from these 
authors, which we regret exceedingly. — Editor. 



CHARLES P. ROBERTS. 275 



CHARLES PHELPS ROBERTS. 

Charles P. Roberts is a native of the City of Bangor, where 
he was born on the fourteenth day of February, 1822. His father 
removed to Bangor in early youth, and is now one of its oldest citizens. 
The subject of this sketch received his early education at the Bangor 
High School, from which he entered BoM-doin College, and was grad- 
uated in the Class of 184.5. After this he stutUed law for some time 
in the office of James S. Howe, Esq., a member of the Penobscot Bar, 
and U. S. Commissioner for Bangor. Mr. Roberts was admitted to 
practice in 1847, but becoming connected with the editorial depart- 
ment of the Bangor Daily Mercury, he relinquished it, and for four 
years devoted his time and talent to editorial matters. He is now 
one of the editors of the Bangor Daily Journal, a new daily paper 
recently started m that City. 



THE SLEEP OF NATURE. 

As an eattliquake rocks a corse, 

In its coflin in the clay 
So white Winter, that rough nurse, 

Rocks the death-cold year to-day. 

Shellet. 

She is not dead, but sleepeth. 

Scripture. 



The wind is loud, ar\^ a frosty shroud 

Wraps Nature in its fold, 
The Frost King's hands, as with iron bands, 

Have set and sealed their hold. 

How swift and fleet were the Day-God's feet, 

That danced along the plain ! 
And sudden and brief the fall of the leaf, 

Told Winter come again ! 



276 



CHARLES P. ROBERTS. 



As sweet and deep as a maiden's sleep, 

In snow-white vesture laid, 
Looks Nature now, with her pale cold brow, 

In her wintry garb array'd. 

Yet fair as the flush of a virgin's blush, 
Shall she rise from sleep and dream, 

And roseate hues with the glittering dews, 
Shall weave her gorgeous sheen. 

And again shall sing the birds in the Spring, 

And Nature's heart shall glow ; 
The fruits and flowers, in the genial showers, 

Shall blossom sweet and grow. 

On hill-side and plain shall nod the ripe grain. 
In Summer's golden sun, . 

And Autumn shall cheer with the fruits of the year, 
The reapers' work well done. 



Thus warm or a-cold, she waxeth not old, 
Since the sweet morn of her birth. 

When the glad stars sang#,nd the echoes rang, 
Through all the heaven and earth. 



B. A. G. FULLER. 277 



BENJAMIN A. G. FULLER 



B. A. G. Fuller, Esq., is a native of Augusta, where he was 
born on the twenty-tliii'd of May, 1818, and is a son of the late 
Judge Fuller, of that city. He was educated at Bowdoin College, 
from which he graduated in 1839. « During the jn-evious year he 
delivered a poem before the Athenean Society of the College. On 
graduating, he studied law in his lather's office, and also at the 
Harvard Law School, Cambridge, Miss. In 1841, he was admitted 
to the Kennebec Bar, and entered to practice in liis native city, where 
he has since rem.iincd. For the past four years he has been Judge 
of the Municipal Court of Augusta. 



FAITH, HOPE, CHARITY. 

' And now abideth Faith, Hojye, Charity, these three : hut the greatest of 
these is Charity.' 

Haye noPE ! — it is the brightest star 

That lights life's pathway down : 
A richer, purer gem than decks 

An Eastern Monarch's crown. 
The Midas that may turn to joy 

The grief-fount of the soul ; 
That points the prize, and bids thee press 

With fervor to the goal. 

Have Hope ! — as the toss'd mariner 

Upon the wild wave driven, 
With rapture hails the Polar star, 

His guiding light to haven, — 
So Hope shall gladden thee, and guide 

Along life's stormy road, 

And, as a sacred beacon, stand 

To point thee to thy God. 
24 



278 



B. A. G. FULLER. 



Have Faith ! — the substance of things hoped, 

Of things not seen, the sign ; 
That nerves the arm with God-like might, — 

The soul with strength divine. 
Have Faith ! — her rapid foot shall bring 

Thee conquering to tlie goal, 
Her glowing hand with honors Avreathe 

A chaplet for thy soul. 

Have Faith ! — and though around thy bark 

The tempest surges roar ; 
At her stern voice the storm shall rest, 

The billows rage no more. 
Hope bids the soul to soar on high, 

And yet no wing supplies ; 
She marks the way — but Faith shall bear 

The spirit to the skies. 

Have Charity ! — for though thou'st faith 

To make the hills remove, 
Thou nothing art, if wanting this, — 

The Charity of love. 
And though an angel's tongue were thine, 

Whose voice none might surpass, 
If Charity inspire thee not, 

Thou art as sounding brass ! 

Have Charity ! — that suffers long, 

Is kind and thinks no ill ; 
That grieveth for a brother's fault, 

Yet loves that brother still. 
Faith, Hope and Charity ! — of these 

The last is greatest, best, 
'Tis Heaven itself come down to dwell 

Within the human breast. 



FLORENCE PERCY. 



"FLORENCE PERCY." 

This is the nom de guerre of a highly gifted lady, whose poems, 
contributed to the ' Boston Post,' and other journals, have attracted 
much attention. She was born in the rural town of Strong, Franklin 
County, on the ninth day of August, 1832. She resided there during 
her childliood, and amid its romantic scenery, and the quiet of its 
peaceful village life, found 

' An eloquent voice in all 
The sylvan pomp of woods, the golden sun, 
The flowers, the leaves, the river on its way. 
Blue skies, and silver clouds, and gentle winds,' 

and learned to warble forth in strains of sweet poetic melody the 
lessons which they taught to her admiring soul, in their silent voices. 



JUNE SHOWER. 

How this delicious rain 
Brings up the flowers ! One might almost say 
It rains down blossoms — for where yesterday 

I sought for them in vain, 
They lie by hundreds on the wet green earth, 
Rejoicing in the freshness of their birth. 

With idly folded hands 
The farmer sits within his cottage door, 
Watching the blessings which the full clouds pour 

Upon his thirsty lands — 
Where written promise by his eye is seen. 
In visible characters of living green. 



280 



FLORENCE PERCY. 



Unyoked tlie oxen stand, 
The cool rain plashing on their heaving sides, 
And with wide nostrils breathe the fragrant tides 

Of breezes flowing bland ; 
Then, as though s-ated with the odor sweet. 
Crop the new grass that springs beneath their feet. 

Bloom-laden lilac trees. 
Their purple glories dripping with the rain, 
Shake off the drops in odorous showers again ; 

And the small fragrances 
Of cherry blossoms, and of violet blue, 
vCome balmily the open window through. 

No harsh or jarring sound 
Breaks the refreshing stillness of the hour ; 
The gentle footfalls of the passing shoAver 

Patter along the ground — 
The swallows twitter gladly from the eaves. 
And the small rain talks softly to the leaves. 



Sweet is the gushing song 
Which the young birds sing in the summer time, 
The wind's soft voice, the river's wavy chime. 

Flowing in joy along. 
But more than all I love the pleasant tune 
Sung by the rain-drops in the month of June ! 



EDWARD M. FIELD. 



EDV/ARD MANN FIELD. 

Dr. Field was born in Belfast, on the tAventy-seventh of July, 
1822. He was educated at Bowdoin College, in the class of 1845, 
and received his diploma from the Jefferson Medical College, Pliila- 
delphia, in 1848, ha\ing subsequently passed two years in the Hos- 
pitals of London and Paris. Li 1850, he commenced the practice of 
his profession in the city of Bangor, where he still remams. 



24* 



MY SISTER. 

I REMEMBER how I loved her, 

When a little guiltless child, 
I saw her in the cradle 

As she look'd on me and smil'd. 
My cup of happiness was full — 

My joy words cannot tell ; 
And I bless'd the glorious Giver 

' Who doeth all things well.' 

Months pass'd — that bud of promise 

Was unfolding every hour ; 
I thought that earth had never smiled 

Upon a fairer flower. 
So beautiful it well might grace 

The bowers where angels dwell, 
And waft its fragrance to His throne 

' Who doeth all things well.' 

Years fled — that little sister then 

Was dear as life to me, 
And woke in my unconscious heart, 

A wild idolatry : 



282 



EDWARD M. FIELD. 



I worshipp'd at an eartlily shrine, 
Lured by some magic spell, 

Forgetful of the praise of Him 
' Who doeth all things well.' 

She was the lovely star, whose light 

Around my pathway shone, , 

Amid the darksome vale of tears, 

Through which I journied on. 
Its radiance had obscur'd the light. 

Which round His throne doth dwell, 
And I wandered far away from Him 

' Who doeth all things well.' 

That star went down in beauty — 

Yet it shineth sweetly now. 
In the light and dazzling coronet, 

That decks the Saviour's brow. 
She bow'd to the Destroyer, 

Whose shafts none may repel, 
But we know, for God has told us, 

' He doeth all things well.' 



I remember well my sorrow. 

As I stood beside her bed, 
And my deep and heartfelt anguish, 

When they told me she was dead. 
And oh ! that cup of bitterness — 

hct not my heart rchel, 
God gave — He took — He will restore 

' He doeth all things well.' 



MELVILLE W. FULLER. 283 



MELVILLE WESTON FULLER. 



Melville Weston Fuller is a native of Augusta, and a son of 
the late Frederic A. Fuller, Esq., who was a lawyer of that City. 
He Avas born on the eleventh day of February, 1833, and passed his 
early years in his native city, where he prepared himself, by a course 
of sell-education, for Bowdoin College, and at the age of sixteen was 
admitted as a Freshman. He graduated in 1853, Mith distinguished 
honor, and has since then devoted himself more particularly to the 
study of law, in the office of George M. Weston, Esq., of Bangor, but 
at the present time is a member of the Harvard Law School, at Cam- 
bridge. 



REMORSE. 

I MAY not flee it ! in the crowded street, 

Or in the solitude by all forgot, 
'Tis ever there, a visitant unmeet, 

Deep in my heart, the worm that dieth not. 

There is no consolation in the thought 

That from her lips no chiding words were spoken, 
That her great soul on earth for nothing sought, 

Toiling for me until its chords were broken. 

Too late, the knowledge of that deep devotion ! 

Too late, belief of what I should have done ! 
Chained to my fate, to suffer the corrosion 

Of my worn heart until life's sands are run. 



284 



FANNY P. LAUGHTON. 



Why should I weep ? why raise the voice of wailing ? 

Why name the pangs that keep me on the rack ? 
Or prayers or tears alike were unavailing, 

She has gone hence ! I cannot call her back. 

And I alone must wander here forsaken — 

In crowded street or in secluded spot, 
From that sad dream, oh never more to waken 

Or cease to feel the worm that dieth not. 



PANNY PAKKER LAUGHTON. 

This gifted young lady is the only daughter of Dr. Sumner 
Laughton, and was born in the village of Orono, on the fifteenth of 
January, 1836. For several years her parents have resided in Ban- 
gor. At an early age she gave e\idence of great native talent, and 
when only ten years of age wrote very creditable verses. She has 
contributed a number of poems of a high character to the ' Eastern 
Mail,' Waterville, and the ' Daily Mercury,' Bangor, mider the signa- 
ture of Inez. 



CASTLES IN THE FIRE 



Alone in my room one wintry night, 

When the world without was dark and cold, 
I gazed in the glowing coals, whose light 

Flitted over the walls like rays of gold ; 
And I saw a castle glittering bright, 

And a shining banner, with many a fold, 
Waved over the battlement's gilded height. 

And gay forms bent from the turrets old. 



GEORGE W. SNOW. 



285 



I looked again, 'twas changed ; and where 

Were the gardens bright wath the proud and gay ? 
A dim old church was the castle fair. 

And the knights were mouldering tombstones grey. 
But the banner waved on the lonely air, 

Slowly it waved ere it sunk to decay. 
And in burning lines it was written there, 

' Thus do the beautiful fade away ! ' 

And still I gazed, — it was changed once more ; 

A bright lyre twined with a laurel wreath. 
Seemed on the listening air to pour, 

With a music tone its mystic breath ; 
The shadows gathered the hearthstone o'er. 

But the golden harpstrings seemed to breathe, 
As the firelight danced dimly on the floor, 

' 'Tis Thought alone that may conquer Death ! ' 



GEORGE W. SNOyr 



George W. Snow, Esq., was born in the city of Bangor, on 
the tliirteenth of May, 1809. He has written much, but Httle of 
which, however, has been published, owing to its adaptation to cele- 
brations, anniversaries and the lilce occasions. 



THE TEMPEST DRIVEN. 



Adowx the gulf, adown the gulf 
The trembling vessel flies ! 

No shore or welcome haven near 
To glad the seaman's eyes. 



286 



GEORGE W. SNOW. 



Adown the gulf, adown the gulf 
She speeds her fearful way ; 

The storm is dark around her track — 
No star doth lend its ray. 

The billows dash with threatening roar, 
As hounds that scent their prey, 

Yet swiftly, wildly speeds she o'er 
The flashing waves away ! 

But now no more adown the gulf 
The lonely bark is driven, — 

Before the veering storm she reels — 
Her only sail is riven. 

Across the gulf, across the gulf! 

Amid the deepening storm. 
From wave to wave she scuds away 

Like some sea-monster's form. 

Away ! she may not linger there, 

For on her gleaming path, 
Like wolves that chase the flying deer, 

The billows foam in wrath. 

But now away beyond the gulf 

She finds a calmer sea, 
And clear and bright comes forth the sun, 

From tempest-clouds set free. 



'Tis thus the spirit, by the strife 
Of Death relentless driven, 

Finds, far beyond the storms of Life, 
A calm repose in Heaven. 



HANNAH E. BRADBURY. 



287 



HANNAH E. BRADBURY. 

Miss Bradbury, known throughout New England as H. E, B., 
the authoress of so many charming little stories and poems which 
bear these initials, is tlie daughter of Benjamin B. Bradbm-y, of Ban- 
gor. She was born in Chesterville, but has resided in Bangor for 
some years. 



THE COVERED BRIDGE. 

The grave is but a covered bridge, 

Leading from light to light, through a brief darkness. 

H. W. Longfellow. 

Only a covered bridge ! yet from its brink 

My spirit turns in fear ; 
Trembling and shuddering from its gloom I shrink, 

The portals seem so drear. 

A covered bridge, leading from light to light, 

The darkness brief, they say; 
Yet who shall guide me through the starless night 

That darkly shrouds the way ? 

Each pain is softened now by mother's hand, 

And pillowed on her breast 
I catch bright glimpses of the spirit-land, 

Where wearied souls may rest. 

My Father's hand now smoothes each ruffled wave 

Of life's unquiet sea ; 
Oh, gladly would I tread the darksome grave, 

Leaning, my Sire, on thee. 



288 SARAH W. SPAULDING. 

But I must Avalk this covered bridge alone, 

Passing from light to light 
"Without the kindly greeting of a friendly tone 

Breaking the hush of night. 

No ! not alone — our blessed Christ hath pass'd 

Through death's dark gloom, 
A holy radiance hath his presence cast 

Around the vmwelcome tomb. 

And when the light of earth grows dim and pale, 

I'll banish every fear ; 
For though the kindness of my friends shall fail, 
God's angels will be near. 

God's angels will be near, through the brief night 

Which shadows for an hour 
The bridge o'er which I pass, from light to light, 

Where death halh no more power. 



SARAH WARREN SPA.ULDING. 

This young lady was bom in the town of Norridgewock, on the 
sixteenth day of August, 1834. She now resides at Bangor. 



THE STORM AND THE RAINBOW, 

Did the angels hang it out, mother, 

The glorious bow I see ? 
Have the spirits such a banner 

As now is shown to me ? 



SARAH W. SPAULDING. 289 



It loas reached down from Heaven, 
Dear mother, I cannot doubt, 

So tell your own dear Willie — 
Did the angels hang it out ? 

The rain fell down in torrents — 

The clouds were black as night — 
But soon the armies of the storm 

Were beat and put to flight. 
They were vanquished by the angels, 

And when they saw their rout, 
There came the flag of Victory — 

Did the angels hang it out ? 

I have heard of wars in heaven — 

Now I knoio that they have fought — 
I saw the flashing of their spears, 

And their glances — did I not ? 
Their chariots rolled thro' heaven. 

And I heard the demons shout — 
And then I saw the fiag of peace — 

Did the angels hang it out ? 

'Tis the bow of promise, mother — 

I know by God 'twas given, 
Emblem of peace and harmony 

Between mankind and heaven ! 
And when the storm-cloud passed away 

With the last thunder shout, 
And this bright bow appeared in heaven 

Did the angels hang it out ? 



25 



290 



CHARLES P. ILSLEY. 



CHARLES p. ILSLEY. 



This gentleman is a native of Portland, -where he was bom in 
1806. He was for several years connected Avith the ' Portland Tran- 
script,' and at the present time is associated with E. P, Weston as 
assistant editor of the ' Eclectic' 



'OH, THIS IS NOT MY HOME!' 

Oh, this is not my home — 

I miss the glorious sea, 
Its white and sparkling foam, 

And lofty melody. 

All things seem strange to me — 

I miss the rocky shore, 
Where broke so sullenly 

The waves with deaf 'ning roar : 

The sands that shone like gold 
Beneath the blazing sun, 

O'er which the waters roll'd, 
Soft chanting as they run : 



And oh, the glorious sight ! 
Ships moving to and fro, 
Like birds upon their flight, 
So silently they go ! 



HANNAH A. MOORE. 291 

I climb tlie mountain's height, 

And sadly gaze around, 
No waters meet my sight, 

I hear no rushing sound. 

Oh, would I were at home, 

Beside the glorious sea, 
To bathe within its foam 

And list its melody ! 



HANNAH AUGUSTA MOORE. 

This young lady was born in the town of "Wiscasset, Lincoln 
County, but has resided for several years in Brooklyn, N. Y. Some 
of her poems have attracted the attention of several jDrominent lite- 
rary men. 



THE SPIRIT OF SONG. 

Desike it not, that fatal boon of sadness, 

Young Dreamer, sailing o'er life's summer sea, 

'Tis born of grief, in hearts whose all of gladness 
Has died 'mid throes of mortal agony. 

Desire it not ; only where joy is dying, 
In the dark caverns of the soul it dwells, 

Its strength is drawn from tears, and groans and sighing. 
From bleeding hearts the mystic music wells. 



293 



HANNAH A. MOORE. 



Yes, tlience it wells, like springs of living water, 
Or like the tide that rushes forth amain 

From severed veins, on the red fields of slaughter, 
Where heaps on heaps, are piled the battle's slain. 

Its stirring numbers roll Avith mightiest power. 
Where deepest, darkest floods of anguish sweep: 

Oh, doubt me not, it is a mournful dower, 
Be.stowed on those whose portion is to weep. 

'Tis ever thus ; the grape jields not its treasure. 
Save as the life from out its heart is press'd ; 

And agony, that knows not stint nor measure, 
Wrings out sweet music from the human breast. 

Ah, glances bright, and mirth and joyous singing, 
Smiles, and light footsteps cheat the ear and eye, 

While over all, within, despair is flinging 
Its blight-like mist descending heavily. 

Then ask it not, that fatal boon of sadness. 
Young Dreamer, sailing o'er life's summer sea, 

For first must fade thy smiles of heartfelt gladness, 
And tears must quench thy joyful spirit's glee. 



LEWIS DELA. 293 



LEWIS DELA. 

This humorous poet is a native of Portland, where he is now 
engaged in the practice of Law. 



25* 



LAW VS. SAW. 

Sitting in his office was a lawyer 
Standing in the street a sawyer ; 
On the lawyer's anxious face 
You could read, a knotty case, 

Needing law ; 
While the sawyer, gaunt and grim, 
On a rough and knotty limb 

Ran his saw. 

Now the saw-horse seemed to me 
Like a double X in fee, 

And the saw. 
Whichever way 'twas thrust, 
Must be followed by the dust. 

Like the law. 

And the law upon the track. 
Like the client on the rack, 

Playing its part ; 
As the tempered teeth of steel 
Made a wound that would not heal 

Through the heart. 



294 LEWIS DELA. 



And each severed stick that fell, 
In its falling seemed to tell 

All too plain, 
Of the many severed ties 
That in law suits will arise, 

Bringing pain. 

Then methovight the sturdy paw, 
That was using axe and saw 

On the wood, 
Had a yielding mine of wealth 
With his honest toil and health, 

Doing good. 

If the chips that strewed the ground. 
By some stricken widow found 

In her need, 
Should by light and warmth impart 
Blessings to her aged heart — 

Happy deed ! 

This conclusion then I draw, 
That no exercise of jaw, 
Twisting India rubber law. 

Is as good, 
As the exercise of paw. 

Sawing wood. 



SARAH HAYFORD, 295 



SARAH HAYFORD. 



Miss Hayford is the adopted daughter of Arvida Hayford, 
Esq., of Bangor, where she now resides. The following Uttle gem 
has been extensively circulated, under the title of ' Sweet Florence,' 
and comes to us in ' Lelia's Offerino:.' 



THE SLEEPING BABE. 

I SAT beside a sleeping babe, 

And watched its gentle rest, 
And felt the balmy breath that came 

From 'neath the quiet breast : 
I saw the smile of innocence, 

That wreathed the sunny brow, 
And felt 'twould never wear a smile 

Of purer love than now. 

There is a sweet, a heavenly charm 

Around the infant thrown, 
A mild and gentle purity. 

In after years unknown. 
No wonder to my partial eje 

This darling of my heart. 
Of gentle loveliness should seem 

To bear a larger part. 



296 



SARAH HAYFORD. 



'Twas thus I knelt beside the couch, 

By little Florence graced, 
And softly kissed the snowy neck 

Her dimpled hands embraced. 
The rose-tint softly flushed her cheek, 

Her lips were cherry red, " 
And innocence and love combined 

O'er every feature spread. 



And as I gazed, methought a smile 

Played o'er the features fair, 
Which spoke a spirit, bright and pure, 

And dreams, all free from care ; 
It told me, too, of angel guards 

To shield the lovely guest, 
As through the years of childhood bright, 

The little one progress'd. 



#rigti):;il |!0(;ms. 



BACCHANALIAN SONG. 



BY MELVILLE 'WESTON FULLER. 



Gaily the wine in our goblets is gleaming, 
Bright on its surface the foam bubbles swim, 

So the smiles of our joy from each countenance beaming, 
Are the bubbles that dance on the cup of life's brim. 

Oh, what are life's hopes and its high aspirations. 
But wishes for things that are not what they seem? 

Away to the shades with such dull contemplations, 
Utopian visions where all is a dream — 

The flag at our mast-head is pleasure's own banner. 
And to the breeze boldly its broad folds we fling. 

While each stout-hearted sailor will raise the hossanna 
To ivy-crowned Bacchus, our jolly-souled king. 

Then fill up your glasses, lads, fill up your glasses, 
With frolicksome pleasure the moments employ. 

Since life is a sjjan, each bright hour it passes, 
When siezed on its flight, it is ours to enjoy. 



FANNY P. LAUGHTON. 299 



PANSIES. 

BY MISS FANNY PARKER LADQHION. 

There is pansies, — that's for thoughts. 

Summer blossoms, painted 

Like the evening skies, 
In your blended gold and purple, . 

Something holy lies. 

Blossoming so meekly 

On this world of ours, 
Ye are full of deeper beauty — 

Ye are more than flowers. 

Sweet and tender mem'ries 

Of cur ' long ago,' 
In the purple pansies folded. 

Radiantly glow. 

Visions of still meadows 

"Where the sunshine slept, 
And of dreamy woods, where twilight 

Endless watches kept ; — 



Hamlet. 



300 



FANNY P. LAUGHTON. 



Of the paths familiar 

To our childish feet, 
And of brooks whose warbling voices 

Were forever sweet. 

Visions of the summers 

Whose warm bloom is o'er, 
And of hearts, whose bloom was warmer, 

With us now no more. 

Happy hearts that bounded 

Without thought or care, 
Now beneath the sod, — with only 

Pansies planted there. 

Blossoming so meekly, 

Little purple flowers, 
Ye are full of brighter visions, 

Than these faded hours ! 

Full of dreams reflecting 

More than rainbow dyes, — 
Full of golden hopes for reaching 

Into Paradise ! 



0, there's not a single beauty 

In this life of ours. 
Which is not most sweetly uttered 

By the simplest flowers ! 



B. A. G. FULLER. 



301 



THE FORSAKEN ARBOR. 

[In Mejnoi-iam ] 
Br BENJAMIN A. G. FULLEB. 

Into my garden in the Summer hours 

A little bird with golden plumage flew, 
And sported joyously amid the flowers 

"Which clust'ring there, in fragrant beauty grew. 
Her soft and gentle notes, so blithe and gay, — 

Like richest music from the spirit land, — 
Floated around me all the live long day 

And cheered the labors of my head and hand. 

Oft did I watch her as on gladsome wins: 

She fluttered near as if my love to share, 
And by her happy, buoyant song to bring 

Some sweet relief to all my toil and care. 
I watched her, as when twilight shades drew nigh 

With folded plumes she sought her downy nest, 
And safe embo\Yered, drooped her head and eye, 

And sank in trustful confidence to rest. 

Day after day,' as morn's first radiant beams 

Their pure eff'ulgence o'er creation shed. 
This little warbler 'roused me from my dreams. 

And trilled her liquid music o'er my bed. 
Daily she came, — and from my hand she took 

With thankfulness her little store of food, 
The while I smoothed her plumage ; — and her look 

Shew forth a sweet return of gratitude. 
26 



102 



B. A. G. FULLER. 



She won my purest love, — my gentlest care, 

Her warblings all my fond affections stirred ; 
She nestled in my breast its warmth to share : — 

So tenderly I loved my darling bird. — 
I reared an arbor where her nest was made, 

And nursed the beauteous flowers which 'round it grew, 
And sought to shield her by the leafy shade 

From noontide heat, or evenings chilly dew. 

And when the yellow leaves forsook the trees, 

And flowers faded from the cheerless earth, 
I wrapped her softly from the snowy breeze, 

And gently warmed her at the household hearth. 
Four times glad Spring recalled to life again 

Earth's buried glories, hidden long from sight. 
Hailed by my songstress, who, in rapturous strain, 

And notes exultant told her new delight. 

One morn, ere Summer's latest rose had blown, 

With icy breath the hoar-frost filled the air ; 
I missed my little one's familiar tone. 

And sought her sheltered nest ; — she was not there ! 
Too frail the rude Autumnal blast to meet. 

Or lift her pinions 'gainst the wintry storm, 
This first chill warning bade her find retreat 

Ere rougher winds should toss her fragile form. 

And gently, suddenly she took her flight 

To sunnier climes, and skies more mild and fair, 
Where softer zephyrs breathe, and frosts ne'er blight, 

And fragrant flowers bloom eternal there. 
Sweet bird ! how desolate thy empty nest ! 

How sad my garden of thy song bereft ! 
But brighter fields are by thy presence blest, 

And dearest memories unto one are left. 



WILLIAM CUTTEK, 308 



THE INDIAN AT BAY, 



BY WJXLIAM CUTTER. 



' Ye call us savage — O; be just! 

Our outraj!;ed feeliugs scan ; 
A voice conies forth, 'tis from the dust — 
The savage was a man ! ' 

I STAND upon the utmost verge 

Of Freedom's last retreat, 
And feel the everlasting surge 

Still breaking at my feet — 
The surge of pale-faced men that come 

From every distant stand, 
To find a refuge and a home 

In Freedom's chosen land. 

'Twas freedom's land in ages past, 

Where, subject but to God, 
In wilderness and prairie vast. 

The untamed Indian trod ; — 
Free as the mountain-stream that glides 

Meandering to the main, — 
Free as the mountain-storm that rides 

In fury o'er the plain. 

'Tis Freedom's still, to those who wear 

Its warrant in their skin. 
Though all the darkest forms they bear 

Of slavery within. 



304 



WILLIAM CUTTER. 



'Tis Freedom's still — but not for us, 
To whom, by deed from heaven, 

"With ages of unchallenged use, 
Its broad domain was given. 



I 



All men, of every name and faith, 

As with a right divine, 
Find shelter and repose beneath 

Our fig-tree and our vine. 
But we, the children of the soil, 

Our mighty and our brave, 
Abandoned to a ruthless spoil. 

Here only find a grave. 

From post to post still driven back, 

From realm to realm pursued, 
We trace our slow retiring track 

By tears, and graves, and blood ; — 
By wrongs, which to high heaven appeal 

With prayer's resistles power, 
Wrongs which the pale-faced race shall feel 

In heaven's avenging hour. 



1 



EDWARD P. WESTON. 305 



RHYMES, 

Recited at the Jubilee Diiner, at Bowdoin College, Sept. 3, 1854, 

BY EDWARD P. WESTON. 

***** * 

Well, it was pleasant, as we said before, 
To be invited home to dine once more. 
But then, we must confess, 'twas rather hard 
To find appended to our mother's card, 
A postscript running thus, — You'll please to bring 
Your welcome with you, — just some simple thing 
To pass round at the dinner ; if so be 
There should be lacking aught of jeu (V esjirit ! 
I took my Bohnar down to find the dish ; — 
Alas ! 'twas neither fruit, nor fowl nor fish. 
A jeu d' esprit ! I'm making no pretenses, — 
'Twas written so by her amanuensis. 
A jeu d? esprit ! well really my brothers, 
If children were not bound to mind their mothers 
With such condition in the note to dine. 
The ''esprit {spree) had all been yours, sans help of mine 
But come I must, — for thus my heart inclin'd ; 
But where alas, the jeu d' esprit to find ! 
Broaght forty miles, 't->vould spoil in getting here, 
Sure as an uncorked bottle of small beer. 
So — wise or foolish — I concluded best 
To let the morning and the hour suggest. 
Well, — when I reached, this morning. College-place, 
And caught a glimpse of Alma Mater's face, 
There's no belying it, I surely spied 
26* 



J 06 EDWAKD V. WESTON. 

Upon that matron's face a look of pride ! 

She was not gazing on herself, be sure, 

Vain of her beauty, simpering-demure ; 

Nor — though she might — upon Ids manly charms 

She woo'd so lately to her widowed arms, — 

But on the sons who crowded to her door; 

And as she gazed in pride, she jyruycd for more. 

More sons to speak her praise in all the earth, 

And tell inquirers where they had their birth : 

More sons to Lord--' it o'er some heritage 

Goodly as that of her own Dartmouth sage : 

More Nehemiahsj like our scribe to-day. 

For our Jerusalem to toil and pray : 

Sons Keen in history and in physic too, 

With pen or pill to put the patient through : 

More HowAKDS, on the prisoner's cause intent, 

And in all legal ways benevolent : 

More of the Calvin school, to Stowe within 

Our young divines, the mysteries of sin : 

More Abbotts, fain the cloistered young to guide 

When learning's fount and faith's flow side by side : 

More precious Stones to gleam with beauty rare 

In the bright crown she prides herself to wear : 

More Smyths, with brawny arm to forge them hot 

And weld the chain of mathematic shot : 

More Little men, in wealth or office great 

To spur the iron horse, — or — legislate : 

More Franks, to Pieiice| the serried hosts' of war 

That gather on our borders, near or far : 

More William Pitts, on the high mission sent 

To scout oppression in our parliament : 

More fearless hearts and stentor lungs to Hale§ 



ISAAC m'lellan. 307 

The day when Right shall over Might prevail : 

More East-men magi in their country's laws, 

More SouTHGATEsll guarding well the church's cause : 

More tasteful Baknes, whose grecian style is meet 

For palaces as well, or learning's seat : 

More Chandleks, working at their laioful wares, 

Bakeks and Buteers, with their household cares : 

A few LoNGFEELOWsf f more to write her name, 

High on the pannels of our country's fame, — 

With ' voices of the night,' and words of cheer 

To chain the nation's heart and charm its ear : 

More blossoms from the fragrant Hawthokne hedge, 

Planted just yonder by the Blithedale edge: 

More Pkeisitisses|;J: — soon masters in the art. 

By which the tongue can thrill the human heart : 

More Drummond lights, with far and flashing rays 

To set the world a-gaping and a-blaze : 

More sons, in fine, each post and sphere to grace 

From humble toil to Presidential place. 



THE SHORES OF MAINE, 

BY ISAAC M'LELLAN. 

Far in the sunset's mellow glory, 
Far in the daybreak's pearly bloom — 
Fring'd by ocean's foamy surges, 
Belted in by woods of gloom, 
Stretch thy soft, luxuriant borders, 
Smile thy shores, in hill and plain, 
Flower-enamell'd, ocean-girdled, 
Green bright shores of Maine. 



308 ISAAC m'lellan. 



Rivers of surpa"=sing beauty 
From tliy hemlock woodlands flow, — 
Androscoggin and Penobscot, 
Saco, cliill'd by northern snow. 
These from many a lowly ravine 
Thick by pine-trees shadow'd o'er, 
Sparkling from their ice-cold tributes 
To the surges of thy shore. 

Bays resplendent as the heaven, 
Starr' d and gemm'd by thousand isles, 
Gird thee, Casco, with its islets, 
Quoddy with its dimpled smiles : 
O'er them swift the fisher's shallop, 
And tall ships their wings exp md, 
While the smoke-flag of the steamer, 
Flaunteth out its cloudy streamer, 
Bound to foreign strand. 

Bright from many a rocky headland 
Fring'd by sands that shine like gold, 
Gleams the light-house white and lonely. 
Grim as some barronial hold. 
Bright by many an ocean valley 
Shaded hut and village shine ; 
Roof and steeple, weather-beaten, 
Stain'd by ocean's breath of brine. 



3^fpntHi\ 



NOTES. 



Page Y — {a"). These extracts are from Lono;fellow's ' Dramatic Poem,' enti- 
tled tlie ' Spanish Student,' which, in many respects, is the finest poem he 
has written. It is of a diiferent cliaracter from Evangeline, and shows that the 
genius of its author is versatile and brilliant. The passages here quoated, are 
some of the most beautiful which it contains. Without this poem no library is 
complete. 

Page 10 — 1st line — read mystery for history. 

" 15 — 4th verse " achieving " aching. 

'' 16 — 2d " '' whatever " whatever. 

'' 18 — 2d " " Moldau's " Moldar^s. 

Since our work has been in press, and after the sketch of Mr. Willis was 
printed, we learned that he was not so dangerously ill as supposed, although 
quite feeble. 

Page 41 — (b). In the Scamander, — before contending for the prize of 
beauty on Mount Ida. Its head waters fill a beautiful tank near the falls of Troy . 

Page 38 — (c). Parrhasius, a painter of Athens, from among those Olyhthian 
captives Philip of Macedon brought home to sell, bought one very old man; and 
when he had him at his house, put him to death with extreme torture and tor- 
ment, the better, by his example, to express the pains and passions of his Prome- 
theus, whom he was then about to paint.— Burton's Anatomy of Melancholy. 

Page 54 — (d). This poem was prepared for the press on the day succeeding 
Mr. Thatcher's death, which explains the opening lines. 

Pago 59 — (e). One prisoner I saw, who had been imprisoned from his youth, 
and was said to be occasionally insane in consequence. He enjoyed no com- 
panionship — the keeper said — but that of a beautiful tamed bird. Of what 
name or clime it was, I know not — only that he called it fondly his dove, and 
seem°d never happy but when it sang to him. — M. S. of a Tour through France. 

Page 80 — (/). This poem was written on the shore of Lake Erie, during Mr. 
Lovcjoy's journey West, and soon after he had recovered from a severe illness. 
It undoubtedly refers to himself. 



NOTES. 3 Ijl 



rage 85— (g-). "We intended giving a longer sketch, and a more definate 
one, both of Mrs. Smith and her husband, but Iiave received no reply to our 
letters. Within a short time we have learned that she was born in Cumberland, 
instead of Portland. 

Page 103 — {h). We have occasionally referred to Dr. Griswold's work — 
' The Poets and Poetry of America,' for some few dates and facts, but since 
using them, find that they are horribly incorrect, and therefore beg our readers 
to excuse us for stealing from so poor a source. 

Page 107 — 2nd verse, read spuming for sparmg. 
" 108 — 3rd " " aye " age. 

Page 113 — (i) Since his death, Mr. Mellen has been accused of plaguerizing 
this poem from one by Tennyson, of a similar character. The only line that is 
at all similar to Tennyson's, is the one here marked. The accusation is entirely 
false. 

Page 128 — (i). The fifth of May came amid wind and rain. Napoleon's 
passing spirit was deliriously engaged in a strife more terrible than the elements 
around. The words tete rf' armee, (liead of the army,) the last words which 
escaped from his lips, intimated that his thoughts were watching the current of a 
heavy fight. About eleven minutes before six in the evening, Napoleon expired. 
— ScoWs Life of Napoleon. 

Page 134. — In 4th line, read Blackivood^s for Blackstone's. 

A large portion of this sketch was accidentally ommitted, and discovered 
too late to be remedied. The selection of poems is by no means a sample of the 
ability of Mr. Neal, who is undoubtedly, one of the most gifted and remarkable 
men who have figured in the literature of our country. Our proper selections 
not arriving at the time appointed we were obliged to use whatever we could find 
of his in print. 

Page 1.35 — {k). This is an extract from Mr. Neal's longest poem, entitled 
'The B.-ittle of Niagara,' and is taken from that portion of it which brings the 
care worn soldier home to his wife and children. The painter's art would 
fail, should he attempt to excel this beautiful and life-like picture of the poet's 
imagination. 

Page 139 — 1st verse, last line, comma for period. 

" 144 — 2nd line, read, and ^orote several dramas, which were, ^"c. 

" " — 10th " " President Taylor, for Fillmore. 

'' " — 22rd " " Revolution tor Renovation. 

" 152 — 2nd verse '' vsidest ior wildest. 
" " — 3rd " " Are ever for Have e'er been. 
(( (( — (t (1 (( The soone.1t for And the soonest. 

" 161 — 4th verse, read came for come. 

" 164— (i). In the year 1821, a Mrs. Blake perished in a snow storm in 
the night time, while travelling over a spur of the Green Mountains, in Vermont. 
She had an infant, which was found alive in the morning wrapped in the 
mother's clothing. 



3^ 



NOTES. 



Pa;;e 170 — last verse, read hhn for thee. 

« 177 — 3rd verse, read balcony for bacony. 

" « '• " " flight for light. 

" 210 — 16th line, read did for done. 
" " 19th " " associate for assistant. 

" 213 — 10th " " the immortal fov immortal. 
« " — last line, read to immortality for of immortality. 

" 216 — 14th line, read </ii5 for t/ie. 
« « _ 16th " " breathe for 6rea«A. 

" 217 — last verse, read immortally for immortality. 

" 215 — (H. Mrs. Sarah Emmons Gumming, a native of Portland, and 
wife of Rev. Hooper Gumming, of Newark, N. J. 

Page 216 — (hi). She had been married but six weeks and was^then on a 
bridal tour. 

(n). Since this event, in June, 1812, a green cedar tree has sprung up from 
the very spot over which she fell, while gazing into the abyss below, and the 
poet has happily wreathed it into his poem, as a monument planted of God. 

The closing portion of this poem, we regret to say, was accidentally omitted, 
and is here inserted. 

But my mother's voice. 
From the full depths of unforgotten love, 
Still calleth to thee in the spirit land, 
Her voice — her heart — in mine ! 

And now to thee. 
Spirit of heaven sent forth to minister, 
And thee — my mother — dwelling even now 
By prayer and faith, just on the verge of heaven, 
Unto the living and the dead, I give 
These waiting moments and this sorrowing song ! 

Page 303 — * Lord, D.D., President of Dartmouth College. Graduated in 1809. 

" tl^ehemiah Cleveland, one of the Orators of the day. Grad. in 1813. 

" t President Pierce, graduated in 1824. 

" § John P. Hale, graduated in 1827. 

" II Bishop Southgate, graduated in 1832. 

" tt Prof. Longfellow, graduated in 1825. 

" X% Sargent S. Prentiss, graduated in 1826, and his brother, George 

L. Prentiss, graduated in 1835. 



LbNly'12 



